Bad Blood
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU* After Hermione contracts an illness revealing her true lineage, she's cured by a werewolf bite and takes her place as the Lestrange heir. She's unprepared for meeting Orias Mulciber—whose presence screams Alpha Male—and unaware Fenrir's bite turning her is no accident. All complicated enough without her sudden courtship to Tom Riddle stirring jealousy in one closest to her.
1. Chapter 1

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 **1) As stated in the summary, this is an** _ **Alternate Universe**_ **story. A LOT is different from the canon, so please be patient before jumping to conclusions about characters/concepts/anything else (such as the nature of the Death Eaters), as all things will be explained/expanded upon as the story progresses.**

 **2)** Content warnings: Smut, violence, possessive behavior, _possible_ bondage, possible sadomasochism. Despite these things, this story might not be as dark as expected.

 **3)** This was originally tagged in the summary with ***pureblood/werewolf!Hermione*** and ***poly-fic*** (as well as ***Sporadic Updates*** ), but as many of you know, we are only allowed a limited number of characters in our FFN site summaries (which is why authors often change up their summaries as they go along, or look back on an older work, because some better version occurs to them after the fact, or why some summaries seem a mess, because they're scrambling for a way to sum up their plot in a small space [that being said, maybe try a work that has a summary you've glimpsed and thought 'well, that seems a little interesting, but the summary is kinda _meh_ '. It might simply be that the writer was at a loss for summarizing—trust me, even published authors struggle with blurbs]). In order to make space for an updated version of the summary which gave a more adequate view to potential readers of what they're getting into by clicking on this fic, I had to do away with anything extraneous. **Despite the label of 'poly-fic', there _may_ be some M/M scenes.**

 **4)** Updates will be sporadic, chapter lengths may vary wildly (some may be 5k, some may be shorter than 2k). **  
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 **Disclaimers: I do not own** ** _Harry Potter,_** **or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.**

 ***** ** _Orias_** **Mulciber** (who appears in a number of my other DE fics) is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.

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 **FANCAST :**

 **Brock O'Hurn as *Orias Mulciber; Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback; Nikolaj Coster-Waldau as Rodolphus Lestrange; Henry Cavill as Tom Riddle, Jr./Lord Voldemort**

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 **Chapter One**

"We—we truly never wanted for you to find out like this," Mum—no, no, this woman wasn't Mum, not anymore— _Dahlia_ said, her fingers pressed to her chin, as she always did when she fretted.

Hermione, uncertain how to feel about any of this, just now, opened her mouth to snap a retort, but the words never came out. Instead, a terrible, hacking cough erupted from her.

She shielded her mouth with her hand just in time, but she could already feel the slick warmth on her palm. Pulling her hand away, she saw the blood. She saw the faint glow of iridescent glittering mixed with crimson—the sign that she was losing her magic along with her blood. Every witch or wizard had a unique hue to their magic. Hers was a shade of purple.

She might not have realized this was no natural illness if she'd not noticed that faint glow. But, with that faint glow came the awful realization . . . . This type of illness _only_ struck pure-bloods.

If she had contracted it, but her parents were Muggles, that only meant one, tragic, thing.

When she'd confronted them about it, she'd hoped for something. A denial, some reason she was sick that was perfectly logical and wouldn't mean her entire life changing . . . . Anything, at all.

But Dahlia Granger's response was to turn a mortified expression on her husband, William, and collapse crying in his arms. The tear-broken whispered shout, _We should've told her long ago_ , still rang in Hermione's ears.

At the sight of her daughter coughing so violently, Dahlia reached toward her. She couldn't say she was wholly surprised when the young woman backed away from her touch. It hurt, but no, it did not surprise her.

"What I think you mean to say," Hermione said in a rough breath of sound as she snatched up a tissue to wipe her hand, "is you _never_ meant for me to find out."

"Don't take that tone with your mother, young lady!"

Dahlia winced at her husband's interruption. Hermione. on the other hand, schooled her features and turned a cold expression on the man she'd been raised to believe was her father.

"Oh, I don't _believe_ you have the audacity to reprimand me for being disrespectful right now. You lied to me my entire life, and you dare tell me not to take a tone!"

She could see it in his face that he regretted his words, already, but he was not prepared for her response. His brown eyes—the ones she'd always thought she'd inherited from him—widened at the small, twisting sparks the girl was emitting with her unchecked anger.

"You're right. We never _thought_ you would find out. If we'd known you'd get sick like this—"

"I'm one of them, aren't I?" When her adoptive parents merely gaped at her, Hermione forced herself to repress another coughing fit. She would not let her rage be stymied by their sympathetic expressions. "I'm one of those . . . those Black Market magic-babies they had all those reports about years ago, aren't I?!" She'd never before had cause to think her father's sudden promotion that meant them moving to a different city around that same time was suspicious.

Much like what was happening to her, now, some of those _Black Market magic-babies_ had contracted the pure-blood illness, which led Scotland Yard and the Ministry of Magic into a joint investigation of the matter. It seemed too much to imagine that she'd been stolen from her true family as an infant and . . . _sold_ to the Grangers. However, it also seemed too much to hope for that they'd adopted her through legal channels and she just so happened to be the child of a pure-blood family. Most of the _buyers_ who'd been interviewed after their arrests had admitted to wanting the fame and comfort it would bring their family to have a Muggle-born witch or wizard as a child, and that terrible racket guaranteed such an outcome, unlike traditional adoption, or natural pregnancy.

To her knowledge, these people had never exploited her status for their own gain. But then, perhaps the reason for that was not as selfless as she wanted to believe, even now. Perhaps they'd only kept a low profile to protect themselves from being connected with all that.

Sniffling hard, Hermione shook her head. Tears of anger beaded in her eyes, and she did not want Dahlia and William to mistake them for being caused by any other emotion. She knew from their silence they were ashamed, and they would only need to feel shame if her accusation was true.

She swallowed hard as she fought against another tickle in the back of her throat. "Why?"

"At the time, we didn't know the agency was operating illegally," William said, sitting down, finally, beside his wife. He clasped his hands before him, his gaze on his own fingers. She had every right to her anger at them, and Dahlia was absolutely correct that they should've told her long ago. "However, some of the papers they had us sign to finalize your adoption seemed . . . suspicious, at best. We were so happy to have a child, that by the time it occurred to us to look into it further, it was too late. You were ours and the wretched woman who'd arranged the whole thing seemed to vanish. We were afraid that if we brought the situation to anyone's attention, we'd lose you."

Hermione's heart wrenched a little at that. She wanted to stay blindly wrathful toward them, but she knew in her heart they were not awful people. Yet, even so, she recognized that there was a level of selfishness to their decision.

"What about my birth parents?" she asked, unable to stop a single tear that broke free to roll down her cheek. "Don't you think there might've been a chance I could've been returned to them, had you done the right thing?"

Again, the Grangers lapsed into an ashamed silence.

"I see." Again, Hermione sniffled. "Do you even know who they are?"

"No," William said.

Dahlia, on the other hand, let out a low rush of breath before she said, "Yes."

"What?" her husband demanded, turning to face her.

Wringing her hands, the woman shot to her feet and started to pace. "You know my grandfather was a Squib, from a prominent pure-blood line, despite that they disowned him."

"He may know this, but it's news to _me,_ " Hermione said, her shock forcing her to give into a coughing fit. Though her eyes were squeezed shut, she could hear William and Dahlia both start toward her. She raised her free hand, warning them away from her.

When her lungs calmed, she looked up, capturing the other woman's pained blue eyes. "Why was _I_ never told this?"

"I thought you might one day be tempted to reach out to them as you got older. That, perhaps, being a witch, yourself, you might want to mend fences with them." Dahlia shook her head, still pacing, still wringing her hands. "I thought the truth might come out, somehow, that way. But I knew there had been illnesses like this in the past. So I . . . I found that horrible woman, and I told her that if she didn't give me the information about your birth parents, I would go to my grandfather's family and tell them precisely what her precious Umbridge Foundation was up to."

"Why didn't you tell me?" William stood, catching his wife by the shoulders as she turned on her heel to start back the other way.

"You'd made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing more to do with those people. But I _knew_ if something like this happened, we would not be able to help Hermione, but maybe her birth parents could. So, I did the only thing I could do, I used my family's name as a threat, and Dolores Umbridge folded."

William's expression showed that he wasn't sure how to feel. He wanted to be angry with his wife for keeping this secret, but was too relieved at her forethought to really allow such a negative emotion, just now.

Hermione understood quite clearly in that moment that no matter what she did, she would likely never see the Grangers, again. They may have been dishonest about her origins, but they _had_ raised her as kind and loving parents. Her birth parents might not have a cure, but they were her best shot. The authorities would have to be informed, and then William and Dahlia Granger would be arrested and sent to Durmstrang—the Muggle equivalent of Azkaban in the frigid north.

There was only one thing she could really do.

Holding back any more tears, Hermione said, "Give me the information, and then go."

"Hermione—"

"You have to go, or they'll lock you away. Just _leave_ , don't tell me where. I _have_ to report this to the Ministry of Magic." She glanced at the couple before her only once. "You have until their officers arrive to pack up and be gone. It's all I can do for you."

"All I was given was their names," Dahlia said, bracing for the reaction from both the witch in the room, and her own husband. ""Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange."

Hermione gasped, fighting the way it caused her to want to cough, once more. From the corner of her eye, she could see William Granger dragging Dahlia toward the staircase by her elbow. Clearly, they would discuss that _their_ daughter was, in fact, the long-lost Lestrange heir they'd seen advertisements and reports about all these eighteen years as they hastily threw together whatever they dared take with them.

Her fingers trembling, she could only blink in shock several times, waiting for the feeling to flood back into her limbs as she reached for the telephone. Every magical child living in a Muggle household was entrusted from an early age with an emergency number for the Ministry—for troubles Muggles were incapable of managing.

This certainly qualified.

She had her parents names, but she could hardly just pop up on their doorstep, claiming to be their child—they'd probably had impostors swarming their home for nearly two decades. Never had it crossed her mind to imagine they could be her parents! But then, perhaps it was not so surprising, Baby Lestrange had gone missing at one year old, they'd been searching eighteen years, she was nineteen now. It could be simple coincidence, still, but math didn't lie.

Sniffling hard, and forcing away another bout of coughs, she dialed the number. She'd never had cause to use it before, and was jarred by the very un-Muggle-like instantaneous connection to an operator.

"Ministry of Magic, Muggle-born Oversight Office. How may I help you?"

Hermione swallowed, blinking away fresh tears as she said, "Yes, I . . . . My name is Hermione, and I have reason to believe I was one of the children sold by the Umbridge Foundation."


	2. Chapter 2

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 **Fic Specific Note : **Please be prepared for Bellatrix to be a bit OoC (though she may get a nice dose of crazy as the story progresses)

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 **Chapter Two**

There was no denying the nervous coiling in the pit of Hermione's stomach as she sat in the back of a Ministry car, watching the passing of streetlights through the window late the next evening. They'd kept her for only as long as they'd needed to match her magic to her birth family, and give her a potion that would help ease her symptoms for a few days.

The Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt—a rather striking man with dark skin and a beautiful jawline—had apologized personally to her that there was no actual cure they could give her. She couldn't say she wasn't disappointed, but her hopes for one hadn't been very high in the first place.

They'd managed to confirm Dahlia Granger's claim regarding her parentage, however, and now, after the Minister having contacted the Lestranges, she was being taken to their estate. Her throat was tight as she considered that at least she'd get to know them before she passed on.

She sniffled, giving her head a sobering shake. What a horrible thought for a nineteen year old to have to have.

The Minister, at Hermione's request, however, had not shared her condition with Bellatrix and Rodolphus in his communication with them. It might not be the wisest thing not to give them some form of warning, but she thought this was the sort of thing best divulged face-to-face.

The Grangers had vanished, just as she'd told them to, though she dare not let the Ministry know she was complicit in their disappearance.

She was so nervous, she only realized the car had started along a winding drive after the fact. Sprawling grounds stretched out around her, she could see stables in the distance, she thought. And a gazebo large enough to host grand dances, she imagined.

 _Oh, dear Lord!_ Hermione thought, trying not to let the images make her wistful. _What am I getting myself into?_

After what seemed far too long, the car finally pulled up to a wide staircase that led up to a pair of massive, finely-polished double doors. And before those doors . . . .

Hermione swallowed hard, feeling her eyes well up. She'd seen them before, on the telly and the wizard web, pleading for information about their child's disappearance. But even remembering those glimpses hadn't prepared her for seeing them with her own eyes.

For realizing these people were her flesh and blood.

The driver climbed out, and she drew a few quick breaths, trying to steady herself as he came around the car. As he opened the door, she found she was actually scared to climb out. Scared to leave her old life behind and embrace this wholly new one—even if it would only be for a short while.

But then, she looked up. Even from across the staircase, she could see brown eyes . . . wild hair, like her own, piled elegantly atop Bellatrix Lestrange's head. The woman was just as lovely as she recalled from those televised pleas. The man beside her, with his perfect, narrow features, seemed as though he was holding her up.

It seemed forever that she simply sat in that car at the foot of the steps, gaping up at them.

Then she noticed the glint on Bellatrix's—on her _mother's_ —cheek. Hermione thought she might cry, herself, at the sight of that lone tear, and she at last found the strength to force herself to climb out of the car.

Biting hard into her bottom lip, she climbed the steps at a careful pace. She wanted to run to them, but felt she shouldn't, all the same. As she drew closer, she could see more tears . . . she could see the slow smiles the curved their mouths.

She could see the relief in their gazes.

Blast it all, she did run, then. Those last few steps, she barreled straight up and into the waiting arms of her mother and father.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of gibbering voices and hugs. Hermione wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, but she found herself in a lavish parlor. Belatedly, she recalled letting them guide her through the doors and foyer, and across the main floor of the manor.

She was settled on a plush chaise, and they sat on either side of her.

They exchanged a glance around her, before Bellatrix shook her head, trying to get her bearings. "Tell us . . . tell us everything. All about yourself."

Swallowing hard, the younger witch forced a smile. "I'm not sure what you named me, but my Muggle parents called me Hermione, and I'm quite used to that, so I'd like to keep using it, if that's all right?"

Rodolphus chuckled, nodding. "If that makes you comfortable, we're happy to do so, _Hermione_."

"But, um . . . ." Hermione's voice trembled a little as she said, "I don't want to talk about me, at all, really. That's all my past. I'd really rather get to know you."

Again, the couple exchanged a glance. Hermione was not prepared for them to read her so easily, but there it was as Bellatrix tilted her head as she returned her gaze to her daughter's. "Something's wrong. Hermione? What are you not telling us?"

She looked from Bellatrix to Rodolphus and back, before she gave herself a shake. Uncertain quite how to say what she needed to tell them, instead she pulled her beaded bag that she had charmed to help her carry the world, if necessary, over her wrist.

Closing her eyes, she dug about inside and extracted the potion the Ministry had given her.

Her brow furrowing as she kept her eyes shut, she blindly pushed the bottle into her mother's hands. "It's the only reason I haven't coughed, yet. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

"What?" Bellatrix's voice was barely a thread of sound as she examined the potion. "Oh, no, no, no. _Tell_ me this isn't so!"

Blinking rapidly, Hermione tipped her head back as she sniffled. "I'm afraid it is. It's the only way I found out who I really am. When the Grangers realized I'm dying—"

"Don't say that!" Rodolphus shook his head.

With a mirthless grin, she looked at her father. "But I am. I'm sorry I didn't let the Minister tell you, but I thought it was best you find out from me, directly."

Her parents were speechless. And Hermione could not say she blamed them.

She reached out, taking their hands in her own. "That's why I want to get to know you. I want to spend my time learning everything about you. _Please_."

Bellatrix set aside the bottle and returned her attention to the girl. Smoothing Hermione's wild hair back from her face, she laughed. "God, you've got my hair."

Smiling in spite of herself, Hermione covered her mother's hands with her own. "Finally, someone I can blame for a hundred broken hairbrushes."

Rodolphus snickered as he shifted on the cushion to slide a protective arm around his daughter's shoulders.

"Everything is going to be fine, Hermione."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"We may know a way to help you."

The younger witch looked from Bellatrix to Rodolphus and back. "I don't understand. The Ministry said there's no cure."

Her mother winced as she gave a sideways nod. "Technically there isn't, but . . . there may be an old-world method we might be able to employ. Some people we need to speak with, first. And, of course, you'd have to be willing to try."

She nearly could not believe what she was hearing. She'd been so certain there was no other end for her, and now . . . ?

Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth, covering a sound of shock. Letting her fingers slip down, she said in a barely audible whisper, "I don't have to die?"

With a surprised chuckle—a sound that was as sad as it was hopeful—Rodolphus pulled his daughter in for a hug. "No, no. Not if we can help it."

She'd thought it would feel awkward to embrace these near-strangers, but she found herself easily returning the wizard's hug. Even more comforting was the sense of Bellatrix joining in.

After how long, she couldn't even be sure, they finally pulled back.

"It's quite late, already, and you're probably tired," her mother said with a nod, even as she sniffled. "We'll show you to your room, and then your father and I have to go and see about this, all right?"

Hermione nodded, letting them help her to her feet. As they guided her through the house and up the staircase, she asked, "Will you at least tell me what this technically-not-a-cure is?"

Bellatrix and Rodolphus were quiet as they continued to the second floor landing. Only as they turned and started walking her down the corridor did they answer.

"It's probably best we tell you _after_ we confirm everything, all right?"

Though she frowned at Rodolphus' words, she nodded. She wasn't sure it mattered. Hermione was rather certain she was willing to try anything as long as it meant not choking to death on her own blood.

It was probably a selfish reaction, but as she was led into her bedroom—her wide-eyed gaze darting about the gorgeous four-post bed, gleaming Cherrywood furnishings, plush carpeting, thick velvet curtains—she nodded, again. "All right," she said, sure she was not ready to give up this life she'd just come into, with the clearly doting parents she'd only _just_ met.

* * *

Tom Riddle, Jr. was awoken by the discordant jangling of bells. Groaning he pulled himself out of bed and rubbed his eyes. Bloody hell . . . . Well, this was what he got for inheriting the position of leader of an ancient sect, he supposed. His followers popping in at all hours.

He could not wait for the first one to cross him, so he might have a valid reason for murdering someone. Then they'd fear him, just as they had his mother, Merope.

Of course, he could always _do_ what his mother had done and just kill one of them on a whim, but no . . . . Fear was a powerful tool that needed to serve a purpose.

Shrugging into his black silk dressing gown—certainly, he slept bare, he didn't need any of them seeing _that_ —he tightly belted it and grabbed his wand from his bedside table before he headed downstairs to the fireplace in his study. There, green flames sputtered in wait for him to allow entry.

"Who?" he asked, his voice a low, sleepy tumble of sound.

"Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, My Lord," the caller answered.

Tom frowned thoughtfully as he nodded. They were more than loyal enough, he supposed. He tapped the stone of the fireplace with his wand, allowing them through.

He did appreciate the way they both went down on bended knee the moment they set foot out of the hearth. Really, he should've expected them to pop by after the news a few hours ago that their daughter had been found.

Admittedly, he was curious to meet the girl.

"You may rise."

The couple exchanged a glance before climbing to their feet. "We are sorry for coming here so late, My Lord," Rodolphus said, his head bowed. "But we require your aid."

His brows drawing upward, Tom rounded his desk and took a seat. Bracing his elbows on the polished wood surface, he folded his hands and rested his chin atop them. He would pretend he didn't notice how they were both momentarily dazzled by the charming grin he flashed them, then.

"Do tell?"

Bellatrix seemed unusually vexed the second he asked. She wasn't typically one to let uncertainty show so easily. "It's about our daughter, Hermione."

Tom's brow furrowed. "I had thought you named her—"

"She asked that we continue using the name those bloody Muggles gave her, as it's what she's accustomed to."

"Ah." Tom nodded. "What is the issue? Was there a hold up at the Ministry?"

"No," the witch said with a shake of her head. "Nothing so simple, I'm afraid. She's actually sleeping at the Manor, right now."

"Must feel good to have her home after all this time." Tom scratched at the growth of stubble along his chin. "But I really did not expect to discuss the girl until she's ready to be introduced into the fold. Why do you require my aid?"

"My Lord, she has the illness."

His eyes drifted closed at Rodolphus' words. Bloody hell. Well, the Lestrange and Black lines had been spared, so far, he supposed this was bound to happen at some point.

"We know the stories, we know there may be something we can do for her," the other wizard hurried on. "You need to tell us if the old way actually works. Please? We won't risk making the request _unless_ we know, for certain."

With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, Tom sat back. This was much more than he was expecting from the situation. "It _does_. But I can only allow it _if_ she is pledged to the Death Eaters upon her recovery."

"So soon?" Bellatrix's brows drew together. Of course as a member of both the Black and Lestrange families, she knew Hermione would be expected to join the ranks. She'd simply thought there would be more time for the girl to understand the legacy she'd been born into, first.

"This is secret knowledge, ancient knowledge that would certainly be frowned upon by the likes of the Ministry," Tom said, his blue eyes deeply serious, now. "If she is to be cured this way, then she must _also_ be bound by our laws to not divulge our secrets."

Bellatrix frowned as she shared a glance with her husband. This was the first time she could ever recall hesitating to agree with anything asked of her by the Gaunt family.

Her daughter would survive, that was the important thing. Bellatrix would ignore that her compliance had anything to do with the way she couldn't seem to take her gaze from their Lord's perfect mouth for a moment.

Dear Merlin, her husband was standing _right_ there! How could she even play at such a notion?

"So, we shall," she finally said with a nod.

Tom leaned forward on his elbows, once more. "Then I shall let him know you are on your way to speak with him, yes?"

The couple nodded, giving sweeping bows before taking their leave.

That look from Bellatrix just now . . . .

A smirk curved his lips as he again scratched at his chin. Yes, that had certainly been _interesting._

* * *

Hermione blinked at her parents the next morning, uncertain she'd heard them correctly.

They'd had an elf—funny, tottering little thing—bring her breakfast in bed. As she sat there, nibbling at her toast, they'd watched her. She smiled, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the casual scrutiny, but also understanding that she could not know how it felt for them to stand there, for the first time in eighteen years, watching their daughter do something as simple as eat.

Then, as she'd finished her meal, Rodolphus set aside the tray, and Bellatrix sat on the edge of the bed. Taking Hermione's hand in hers, she had explained what the cure was.

The younger witch's brows shot up. "A werewolf bite? I don't understand."

Rodolphus knelt down, peering up at his daughter as he took her other hand between both of his. "The way the magic of the lycanthropy curse works, it corrects whatever is wrong with the victim in preparation for their first transformation. When that person has a condition like yours, the magic's energy is spent fixing their ailment."

She nodded, swallowing hard as she processed this information. "So . . . it will cure me, but not turn me?"

At the question, her parents shared a fretting look she didn't like very much, at all. "There is a slim—minuscule—chance that you may, but that is _rare_. There is typically too little of the curse's magic left in the person's system to fuel the transformation."

"But we won't force you to do this," Bellatrix assured her, shaking her head. "We understand even a slight chance is too much for some to consider. However, the greater chance is that you go on to lead a perfectly happy, healthy life . . . with _us_."

"When would this happen?"

Rodolphus frowned. "As soon as possible. Full moon is in a few days, so tonight or tomorrow would be ideal. We know one who is so afflicted, we've already made arrangements with him. But _only_ if you agree to this. As your mother said, we won't force you."

There was that dreadful coiling in the pit of her stomach, again, just like last night, as she thought it over. She could feel the weight of their gazes on her.

Could she really pass up what might be her only chance to survive? She knew there was likely to be some pain involved in this _cure_ . . . and that miniscule chance of lycanthropy afflicting her, but was it really any worse than the pain of feeling her lungs slowly tearing themselves apart?

She'd not really felt too awful, today, however. She had to give the Ministry that—she'd not taken the potion yet, this morning, so she could only imagine the dose she'd had last night was still in affect.

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slow. Ignoring her gorgeous, lush surroundings, she focused on Bellatrix's gaze, and then on Rodolphus', before dropping her attention to her fingers wrapped in theirs.

She'd spent the last eighteen years of her life believing herself to be Hermione Granger. Didn't she deserve to give herself a chance at being Hermione _Lestrange_?

"Okay."

Her parents exchanged a look that was equal parts surprise and relief. "Really?" they asked at the same moment.

Smiling, she tightened her hold on them and nodded. "Yes. _Tonight_. I'd like to get this over with quickly."

Nodding, Rodolphus dropped a gentle kiss to the back of the girl's hand before he climbed to his feet. "I'll let him know."

After he left the room, Hermione turned to look at Bellatrix. "Is it okay that I'm scared?"

"Oh!" Tsking, the older witch brushed Hermione's hair back from her face and pulled her in for a hug. "Of course it is! I'd be terrified in your place, I'm sure."

Hermione was aware of the gentle sway as her mother started to rock her. "This is all very strange."

Bellatrix let out a boisterous laugh. "It's only going to get stranger. You've just made a date with a werewolf."

Her expression hidden against the other woman's shoulder, Hermione's eyes shot wide. Oh, dear Lord . . . . She'd _really_ just agreed to be bitten by a werewolf.

Giving herself a shake, she sat up, once more grasping her mother's hands in her own. "I don't want to talk about that, anymore. Let me wash up and then I was hoping you could show me around?"

Bellatrix smiled. "Of course I will."

* * *

Those had been stables she'd seen last night. And there was more than one grand gazebo, several fountains. Gardens, courtyard, their own private Quidditch field. It had taken them all day to make the rounds of the property surrounding Lestrange Manor. When they had returned to her room, Hermione finally asked the thing that had been on her mind since last night.

"Why did that horrible woman do what she did?"

Bellatrix's brow furrowed as she turned away from the unbelievably gorgeous items she was hanging in Hermione's wardrobe. "What horrible woman?"

"Dolores Umbridge."

Her mother's face pinched in an utterly frightening expression for the briefest moment, before she schooled her features and returned her attention to the clothing. "Honestly, the elves need to do a better job pressing your dresses and robes in the future."

Frowning, Hermione stood from the corner of the bed where she'd been sitting and crossed to the open wardrobe door. "Mother?"

Bellatrix's shoulders drooped. The werewolf would be arriving rather soon, and that would provide a definite distraction from this unpleasant subject, but she had a feeling her daughter would not be stalled so long.

"She had a grudge against pure-bloods." The jet-haired witch shrugged. "Rumor had it she was a handful as a child. When her parents took with the illness and passed away, none of the relatives she had among the pure-blood lines wanted to step up to take her in. Distant relatives who didn't know her from Circe, mind you, _and_ her reputation for being a problem quite proceeded her."

Hermione now dreaded that she'd even bothered to ask. "Muggles adopted her?"

"And tried to _discipline_ the trouble-streak right out of her, from what's said. Not only did it not work, she didn't recognize that they were trying to handle _her_ the only way they knew how. Decided that if the pure-bloods didn't care enough about her to save her from being raised in such an _unsuitable_ environment, she would teach us all a lesson by seeing to it _our_ children were dealt the same fate."

"I shouldn't have—"

"No, no," Bellatrix said, swallowing hard and shaking her head. "Of course you were going to ask. It's just difficult trying to understand the madness that must've been rattling around in that wretched toad's head."

There was silence, stretched and awkward as Bellatrix returned to fussing with the items in the wardrobe. "What, um, what were they like? The Muggles who raised you?"

Hermione smiled sadly. "They were nice, actually. Dentists."

Her mother's brow furrowed as she pouted in thought. "Those are the Muggle physicians who see to people's teeth?"

Snickering, Hermione nodded. "Yes."

"Well, at least you were not too badly off, then. That's . . . some comfort, I suppose."

Nodding, the younger witch observed as Bellatrix picked out a simple black dress and held it out to her. With a questioning look, Hermione took the hanger and held it up against herself. The straps were thin, the neckline low.

She realized with a slightly uncomfortable jolt she was being given something that was both formal, but bared her neck, shoulders and arms, entirely. _So he can choose where he bites me._

"Um, so . . . how is this to work tonight?"

"C'mon, darling, you know how we pure-bloods like to stand on ceremony," Bellatrix said, trying for a light tone.

Shoulders drooping and her arms going limp, even as she held onto the dress, Hermione frowned. "Mother?"

"It's been a long time since anyone has used this type of . . . cure. Traditionally, the witch or wizard is introduced to the werewolf, and they're allowed time to be _alone_." Bellatrix cleared her throat, a single dark brow arching. "And that's that."

Hermione's face fell. Her mother had not been exaggerating all that much when she'd quipped about having a date with a werewolf.

"Understand, the nature of a bite . . . it all depends on the chemistry of the victim and the werewolf delivering it." With a sigh, Bellatrix shook her head and continued on, explaining it to her daughter as the werewolf, himself, had explained it to them. "It could be as simple as him walking in, nipping your arm, and walking back out, or . . . ."

The younger women's brows shot up. "Or?"

Her mother's face pinched in an eloquent expression.

"Oh."

Again clearing her throat, Bellatrix nodded. "That being said, there is no way to really know how you two will respond to one another until you meet. And so, giving you space and time _alone_ for this to happen will save us all a bit of . . . awkwardness."

In denial of the heat she felt filling her face at the notion of what could happen—all for a simple werewolf bite—Hermione dropped her gaze to the dress in her hands. "Oh, well, um . . . . I'd like a few minutes to myself to change and collect my thoughts before I . . . . Oh, dear _God_. . . before I meet this werewolf whom I may—apparently—get up to who knows what with."

Bellatrix laughed at her daughter's flustered state. "It is a lot to process, on top of what you've already had to deal with, I'm aware." Sweet Merlin, they'd not even told her about the Death Eaters, yet, but she supposed there would be time enough _after_ she received the treatment that would save her life. "But we must look on the bright side. You'll have ample opportunity to adjust to _everything_ once you're well."

Hermione nodded, the tilting of her cheek to accept her mother's kiss before she exited the room automatic and strangely natural.

As she closed the door and started to undress, she heard the jangle of bells signaling an arrival by Floo. _That must be him._ Wincing, she shook her head and hurried to pull on the dress.

Turning, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror over her vanity table. God, she was pale. Stupid illness. But at least her coughing was still at bay. It would be awful to hack up a lung on the person who was here to save her life.

And if not _awful_ , then at least, it would certainly be rude.

Considering her own reflection carefully, she turned her head side to side. Twisting her fingers into her wild hair, she pulled it into a sloppy bun high on the back of her head. She fussed in the top drawer, finding some pins to secure her locks in place.

It seemed ridiculous that she was dolled up to get bitten by a werewolf, _but then pure-bloods do like to stand on ceremony_. If he walked in, bit her on the arm and walked back out, that would be ideal, certainly.

But she was aware her attire was intended to make things easier if that were _not_ the case.

A knock at her door drew her from her borderline-panicked reverie. "Yes?"

The door opened and one of the elves popped their head into the room. "Is young mistress ready?"

Turning on her heel—somehow, being barefoot felt right, just now—she nodded.

"This way," the creature said, opening the door wider and toddling down the corridor.

Hermione followed the elf downstairs, through the house, and into the parlor. Mother was seated, father stood by the hearth, but she did not see their guest. Not until she noted the shadowed figure seated in the armchair that faced away from the door and into the room.

Bellatrix smiled, a bit nervously, Hermione thought, and waved her daughter to her.

Drawing in a deep, trembling breath, Hermione crossed the room. She was nearly afraid to turn and face that chair—nearly afraid to see the werewolf. She'd never actually met one before, and she knew that under any other circumstances, she'd be wildly curious about him.

"Hermione, dear," Rodolphus said, his tone cautious. "This is Fenrir Greyback."

She swallowed hard as she heard the rustling sounds of the man in the chair standing. Turning to face him, she found she had to tip her head back to meet his amber-eyed gaze.

And promptly lost her ability to reason, entirely. She was suddenly, acutely aware of her breathing as she took in his height, the span of his shoulders, the thick black hair shot through with silver that hung, shaggy and unkempt to his shoulders. In the simple movement of him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, she couldn't help but notice the way the fabric of his shirt stretched just a bit tighter across his chest and the muscles of his arms. She dared not drop her attention from his face, though, as she didn't want to consider that it might wander over the rest of him of its own volition.

Goodness, it was certainly warm in the parlor, wasn't it? Hermione swallowed hard, words of greeting sticking in her throat.

 _So much for a simple bite on the arm_ , she thought, only distantly able to hear Bellatrix and Rodolphus backpedaling toward the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hermione was acutely aware of his presence—of the very space he took up—as he circled her on slow footfalls. She was aware of his head tipping this way and that as he looked her over. Once, twice, and both times he crossed in front of her, his gaze flicked up from this inspection to capture hers for a fleeting heartbeat.

God, she had no idea how it felt as though her entire body was blushing and her breath was coming up short just from him _looking_ at her!

Then, Fenrir drew to a halt behind her. She thought she could sense every millimeter of her skin as she waited for him to do something.

Though she was startled by the first stroke of his fingertip, she didn't jump. Instead, she found herself tempted to lean into his touch as he trailed from just below her ear and along her throat, across to the thin strap of her dress.

She wasn't sure if he was trying to build anticipation, or simply deciding whether or not he should, as he slid his finger beneath the bit of fabric, moving his hand to brush his skin against hers.

Perhaps he was trying to edge her into acting, first.

Fenrir could tell by her scent that she wasn't nearly as sick as her parents believed—as _she_ believed. He could always go right back out and tell them so.

Yet, the way this witch looked at him, her wide chestnut eyes hazy and her skin flushed . . . . The way she shuddered, forcing out a tiny moan he was positive she wasn't even aware she'd uttered as he'd touched her . . . .

Leaving this room _without_ taking her would be crime against both of them, he was sure.

Slipping that strap down her shoulder, he felt a stirring at the way she turned her head to watch his hand, and how her lips parted in a rushed breath.

Still, he could simply shag her and not bite her. This girl was not on death's door, given time she would recover on her own, certainly the bite would speed the process, but she did not require it.

He stepped around her, again, trailing his finger along the top of her dress. He was aware of her gaze on his face even as he watched the movement of his hand over her. If he bit her, she _would_ become like him once the illness passed.

She swallowed hard as he traced up, over her collar bone and along her throat. Up, over her chin and to her lips.

Hermione's eyes drifted closed, and she found she couldn't keep entirely still, any longer.

Fenrir squared his jaw, keeping in a low growl as she nipped at his finger. His breath caught at the feel of her swirling the tip of her tongue against his skin.

Lying had never bothered him before, and it wasn't going to now. After all, they knew there was a _chance_ she might end up with the curse. This girl would make such a _wonderful_ werewolf . . . . Really, just as leaving this room without shagging her would be an injustice, so, too, would be not turning her into one of his own kind.

She'd lost herself in stroking his skin with her tongue, and he uttered a throaty chuckle. The girl opened her eyes, meeting Fenrir's gaze as she let his finger slip from her mouth.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of his expression. Had she really gotten so carried away? Was he supposed to take charge? Had she crossed some line she didn't know of?

"Oh," she said as she forced a gulp down her throat, aware of yet another blush flaring in her cheeks. "I—I'm sor—"

Her apology was cut short as Fenrir pulled her to him, thrusting his tongue between her lips.

After a few breathless moments—enjoying the way she eagerly nibbled and caressed his tongue with her own, and how her fingers gripped into his shirtfront, as though trying to tear the article of clothing from him—he broke the kiss. Smirking, he pulled back enough to meet her gaze, feeling the faint burning of it as his eyes glowed.

Oh, his wolf _liked_ her.

Hermione drew in a few ragged gulps of air as she blinked up at him. She'd read all about stirs of passion igniting a werewolf's eyes, but she'd never thought she'd see it, herself—let alone be the _cause_ of it.

"Okay," she said, her voice trembling just a bit. "Then I'm not sorry?"

Biting hard into his bottom lip, he shook his head. Reaching around her head, he tugged out the pins and dropped them carelessly to the floor, letting her wild hair tumble free about her shoulders and down her back.

"It's not always like this, is it?"

Fenrir tipped his head to one side, lowering his gaze to watch as he tugged down her straps, entirely. He grinned at the sight as he bared her breasts. "No. But you should consider yourself lucky."

"Oh?" The way he was looking at her had a strangely intoxicating effect. She wasn't embarrassed at all to be before him like this.

"I won't sugarcoat it," he said, lifting his gaze back to her face, gauging her reaction as he cupped her breasts, circling the edges of his thumbs over her nipples. She sighed out a pleading little whimper that had him absolutely straining against his trousers. "The bite _hurts_ . . . but I imagine what I'm about to do to you will certainly take the edge off."

He cooperated as she struggled to pull off his shirt—what with him being quite a bit taller than her—but what followed was a sudden flurry of motion. Hermione found herself pinned to the wall, her legs wrapped around his hips, with very little recollection of how she'd actually gotten there.

Their movements were rushed, fevered and clumsy, as they shared another hungry kiss. While she pressed against him, her arms around his neck and fingers curling in his hair, he scrambled to open his trousers.

Despite her clinging, she rolled her hips back, giving him just enough room to position himself between her thighs. He broke the kiss, rumbling out a breathy, growling "Bloody hell," as he tore her knickers out of his way.

Hermione sputtered an airy giggle as she tipped her head back against the wall. She'd read about men ripping off women's undergarments in trashy novels, but had never thought it could _actually_ happen.

Fenrir slammed his pelvis forward, sliding into her hard and fast and her laughter shifted into a whimpering moan. He lowered his head, exhaling sharply against her throat at the sensation of her body gripping, warm and tight around him.

She shuddered as he withdrew and plunged forward, once more. Dimly, she hoped the room had a silencing charm cast on it, because there was no way the guttural sounds emitting from him as he sank into her again and again were quiet.

He uttered a chuckle, slipping his hands to clamp over her hips, stilling her for his thrusts. She screamed behind closed lips, sliding her fingers out of his hair to dig her nails into his shoulders.

When she dipped her head, eagerly nipping at his throat, he marveled at his foresight in deciding to go through with biting her. "Ah-ah," he said his growling voice playful. "I'm the one doing the biting tonight. You'll be more than welcome to sink your teeth into me _all_ you like next time."

She pulled back enough to look at him, a smile curved his lips and she could see the hint of his fangs peeking out. His pace was frenzied, and he'd not faltered as he'd admonished her just now. _Admonished_ , she thought, heady with the sharp, tingling warmth his thrusts were sending through her, _and promised?_

"Next time?"

Fenrir lowered his head, catching one of her nipples between his teeth. He suckled and nibbled, reveling in how she struggled in his hold, trying to push herself against his motions.

At her response, he let the tender bit of flesh slip from his mouth and looked up at her. "If you want. Pretty sure us not shagging again _must_ be against some natural law or another."

She bit into her lip, holding in a moan as she nodded. She could feel her limbs tensing as she clung to him, as he thrust into her harder and faster, still. God, _every_ girl should get to shag a werewolf at some point in her life, she thought in a daze.

He smirked, his gaze on her face as he started rocking her against his movements. "No, no. Open that pretty mouth of yours, _Skönhet_. Let me hear you."

 _Skönhet_? She didn't understand the word—it sounded like a Scandinavian language, and that probably made sense, given that his name _was_ Fenrir—but she recognized that it was intended as a nickname. A nickname for her, already? Or maybe he'd forgotten her name after their whirlwind introduction. Oh, like it even mattered!

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. She pushed herself just a bit more, crying out as the orgasm crashed through her.

Curling his fingers into her hair, he tilted her head. He nipped and lapped at the skin where her shoulder met her neck, feeling himself right at the edge, as well.

She screamed as his teeth sank into her flesh. Pain and pleasure mingled, triggering a second orgasm before the first had even subsided.

Fenrir withdrew his fangs, licking at the wound as he felt her body clench even tighter around him. He let out a growl, unable to hold back any longer.

She shuddered helplessly as his motions turned jerking and erratic. Just as that second orgasm ebbed, he moved into her in one last, ferocious thrust that ripped yet another ecstatic scream from her.

As she collapsed back against the wall, he used his hands on her to move her in grinding motions over him as he came. Though exhausted, already, she couldn't seem to stop herself from giving in eagerly to his guidance, rocking against him until he'd spent himself, entirely.

He pressed his mouth to her neck, once more, lapping and kissing at the bite as they caught their breath. It seemed forever ticked past as he simply leaned against her while their pulses slowed.

She shivered as he slid himself free. Locking his arms around her, he backpedaled until he fell backward into the nearest chair, so that she settled quite naturally in his lap.

"Oh, this is _so_ going to happen again," she said in a breathless whisper.

Fenrir snickered, nodding. "Not until after you're recovered, though, _Skönhet_."

"You called me that before, what's it mean?"

His brows drew upward as he watched the tracing of his own fingertip over her lips. "Beauty."

Hermione laughed, though it was a drained sound. "What? Like, _Beauty and the Beast_ because you're a wolfman?"

He shrugged. "What? Werewolves can't have a sense of humor? C'mon, what d'you say?"

"Deal." She felt herself drifting off—a thorough shagging _and_ a werewolf bite sure could take it out of a girl. Her eyes closed and she let her head fall against his shoulder. " _If_ you can tell me my name."

"Hermione."

The last thing she recalled before falling asleep was giggling as she said, "Shagging again sometime, it is."

When he was certain she was out cold, he watched her face for a moment. "What an amazing creature you're going to be." He nipped at her lips as he carefully shifted her on the sofa to lay down.

* * *

Fenrir emerged sometime later, shirt back on and trousers righted—really, he couldn't imagine speaking to the Lestranges with his cock hanging out, though the mental picture was amusing. More amusing, still, since he'd claimed her ruined knickers as a souvenir, tucked away in his pocket. He expected them to be waiting just outside the door, anxious and hand-wringing as doting parents were supposed to behave . . . not that he would know, being and orphan and all, but he'd read about that sort of thing.

Yet, he had to explore a bit before he found Rodolphus and Bellatrix in a sitting room. He wasn't sure he could blame them for being half way across the manor from the study—he and their _daughter_ had hardly been quiet.

The moment he popped his head into the room, Bellatrix shot to her feet. There was no disguising that she'd been watching the door.

Okay, anxious mother, check.

"Is it done?"

Rodolphus made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat as he noisily turned a page in the book open in his lap. "Bella, my dear, I know it's not pleasant to think about, but they were in there for forty-five minutes. Pretty sure biting happened at _some_ point."

Fenrir's brows shot up as he sputtered out a surprised laugh. "I like him."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, even she flushed at her husband's words. "Fine, all right. Is she okay?"

The werewolf nodded. "She's asleep on the sofa in there. She'll make a full recovery, I'm sure of it. But you might want to let her rest until the full moon passes, entirely."

The Lestranges thanked him for his intervention, and saw him out.

* * *

Fenrir glanced back at the Manor doors as he started walking down the winding drive. With the full moon so close, they wouldn't have any true sign that she was turned until the next one.

Well, he reminded himself with a grin, they had known there was a _chance_ she'd turn when they asked him to do this for them. He'd simply made certain of it.

* * *

Hermione spent following week laid up in bed. Bellatrix and Rodolphus both fussed over her, and the elves fussed over her, and she hated to admit it, but it felt wonderful to be so cared for.

She spent the days reading until she dozed, and the nights . . . . Well, her dreams were filled with steamy images of Fenrir Greyback taking her in all sorts of imaginative ways.

The nights of the full moon—which, she learned was, in fact, all three nights of the moonphase, not simply the peak—were the worst for that. She'd woken in a sweat, her breathing heavy and an unbearable, longing ache between her thighs.

After the moon had passed, she felt up to walking around the house. The days of nothing to do had helped her make those last few steps to fully accepting this new life of hers. She was Hermione Lestrange, daughter of two pure-blood noble houses. Mother had said there was something she'd wanted to discuss with her in regard to their family legacy . . . .

Hermione supposed now was as good a time as any. Pulling on her dressing gown over her cream-colored silk nightdress, and pushing her feet into the fuzzy slippers the elves had been kind enough to set before the fireplace to warm, she loosely tied the belt. She paused, only briefly, before the vanity table to check herself in the mirror. Her hair wasn't a _total_ rat's nest. But smoothed her hands over it, tucking the wild locks neatly as she could behind her ears.

Leaving her room was an odd feeling after having it be her whole world for a near-week. She knew a medi-witch was scheduled to make a house call and examine her tomorrow, and it was already late afternoon. Perhaps she'd while away the evening making another tour of the grounds.

As she started down the staircase, she thought she could hear voices from the parlor. Her parents she recognized, immediately, of course, but the other two? Male voices that were distinctly unfamiliar to her, one of which seemed to have a deeper timbre than anything she'd heard before.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she ignored a fluttering twitch low in her body at the sound. That was . . . unexpected. She shook her head and continued on, across the floor. Though she was hardly dressed for company, she thought there couldn't be any harm in simply peeking into the room to catch a glimpse of her parents' visitors.

And . . . even if she was spotted, who cared? She was pretty sure any friends of her parents would have been told she was recovering from an illness.

There went that rumbling voice, again. Halting, she gave herself a shake. This was utterly ridiculous—to feel flush this way over a _sound_.

With a deep breath, she tipped her head around the bend of the entryway. Unfortunately, the first thing she saw was her father, and his attention had been drifting past the front of the room, just then, so he captured her gaze before she had the opportunity to notice anything—or any _one_ —else in the room.

Rodolphus smiled broadly, sweeping his hand out toward her. "There you are. Please come here, Hermione."

"Oh, um . . . ." She shook her head, shifting uncomfortably in place. "I'm not really—"

"Hermione, darling, they understand," Bellatrix said with a grin as she hurried across the room to take her daughter's hand. "Come say a quick _hullo_ , then you can pop upstairs to put on something more appropriate for company, all right?"

"But I should really—" The younger witch cut herself off at the sudden, stern look that flitted across her mother's face.

"We really do not wish to be rude, darling. There's someone who's been quite anxious to meet you."

Hermione was under no illusion about her parents being real people, as prone to temper-flares as anyone. But she felt the other witch's irritation as though it cut right through her. Perhaps that was some part of the bond between mother and child amongst pure-bloods.

Forcing a smile, she nodded.

Bellatrix breathed a sigh of relief, fussing to tuck Hermione's hair behind her ears. After a moment of preening, Bellatrix once more grabbed her daughter's hand, this time tug her into the center of the room.

"Please do forgive her appearance, but you are aware of her circumstances. She'll pop up to change in a moment."

As Bellatrix spoke, Hermione was completely taken with the blue eyes of the man who'd risen from his seat to greet her. His perfect jaw, full lips, and dark, tumbling curls belonged on the cover of a magazine.

"Hermione, this is Thomas Riddle, Jr.— _Lord_ Thomas Riddle, Jr.—he is quite an important friend of ours."

Tom grinned, tilting his head to one side as he reached out, catching Hermione's hand in his. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against the back of it.

The younger witch reminded herself to breathe as she watched him. As those blue eyes snapped up to lock on hers while he straightened up, but did not relinquish his hold of her hand. "A pleasure, Miss Lestrange. You may call me Tom." Their daughter was oblivious to the surprised glance the Lestranges shared at that. No one in their circle called him _Tom._

The girl's tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, until Bellatrix nudged her gently. "Her—Hermione is fine, thank you."

There was a shift in his expression, then, and she couldn't put her finger on it, but it caused her heartbeat to quicken a bit.

Before she could think too much on it, she heard that deep rumbling from before. An exasperated utterance from the other side of the room drew her attention and Hermione turned to look.

She did not expect the mountain of a wizard lingering by the window. He smirked—it reminded her of Fenrir, actually—as he made his way across the room, his gaze never leaving hers. Long waves of dark-blond hair fall carelessly about his shoulders, and a thick, well-groomed beard framed his perfect mouth. The eyes watching her so intently as he moved were a shockingly bright blue.

As he came to a halt before her, she marveled at how he absolutely towered over her. His impossibly broad shoulders didn't hurt, either.

"Hermione, dear," Rodolphus said slipping over to stand with the group and carefully extracting her hand from Tom's—neither of them had seemed to notice they were _still_ touching. "This is a friend of the family, Orias Mulciber."

"How do you do, little witch?"

Her jaw fell and she could feel the sudden warmth of a blush flaring in her cheeks. For a fleeting moment, an image dashed across her mind's eye that was in _strong_ competition with her dreams of Fenrir Greyback for steamiest thing she'd ever pictured.

How could the sound of his voice do that to her? How could simply holding his gaze make her think of pushing him to the floor and shagging him right on the spot?

Closing her eyes against a strange, instant burning sensation, she shook her head and forced a calm breath. "Um, I'm sorry. I think I'm still simply feeling a bit faint. Mother, can you help me back upstairs so I can change?"

"Of course, darling, of course," Bellatrix said, quick to take her daughter's arm and lead her from the room. "Gentlemen, we'll be back shortly."

After the witches left the room, Rodolphus wasn't certain he wanted to return his attention to the other two wizards in the room. There had been a tension in the air at both introductions, just now. But he knew he had to—he could not be rude to the Lord, nor could he simply ignore Mulciber. No one ignored Mulciber.

When Rodolphus turned, he found Mulciber watching the doorway, his brows raised. He wasn't even trying to mask the look of interest on his face. Clearing his throat, Rodolphus said, "You might want to curb your expression when her father is standing _right_ here."

Orias pursed his lips, nodding as he dropped his gaze to the floor. He was hardly their subordinate, but he knew they were favorites of their Lord. "I'd say sorry, but I'm not. I'll do my best for your sake, though."

Tom simply reclaimed his seat, leaning his elbow on the armrest and touching a thoughtful finger to his lips. "Can't blame him, entirely, Roddy. Your daughter seems rather interesting. I do wonder what she'll make of our impending chat."

Rodolphus nodded, deciding this the perfect time for a fresh round of drinks. He summoned one of the elves, who immediately popped in to circle the room with a tray of filled glasses.

Their Lord accepted one, taking a leisurely sip as he thought over their introduction. _Interesting_ was what he'd _said_ , but he could tell from that fleeting touch, could tell from that spark in those chestnut eyes as they'd held his, that she was so much _more_ than that.

From what the Lestranges had told him of their daughter's voracious appetite for knowledge and her quick mind, from the fact that she was the heir to two powerful magical bloodlines, she was perfect to fulfill a role he'd not realized he'd been considering. Oh, and who was he kidding? The way she looked at him, and what he'd glimpsed of her beneath that barely-tied dressing gown, certainly helped.

A smile curved his lips as he took another sip, listening to a conversation the other wizards had struck up about the coming Samhein festivities. Yes, he thought, swirling the Fire Whiskey in his glass as he breathed a quiet sigh. The Death Eaters had their Lord . . . .

Perhaps it was time for their Lord to take a Lady.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Tell me, Hermione," Tom said, as he took a careful sip of his tea and then set down the cup to look at her. "Have you ever heard of the Death Eaters?"

She nearly coughed out her own mouthful of tea at the question. Would it be trouble, were she to admit to having searched for them when she was younger? To having been intrigued by their odd name, and trying to find the truth behind the whispers that had circulated throughout the Wizarding world since long before she'd been alive?

Swallowing hard, the witch looked about the room. The Lord, her parents, and the frustratingly attractive Orias Mulciber, had all set down their cups, as well, rather obviously awaiting her answer. As if she hadn't felt attention weighing on her from the moment she set foot back into the room, already, due to the flouncy white dress her mother had helpfully _suggested_.

It didn't assist to ease her nerves, at all, that her father shot the older woman a chagrinned look as mother and daughter had returned to the study. She would pretend she didn't hear the murmured admonishment from husband to wife—how they'd just gotten their daughter back, and now, here Bellatrix was, dolling up the girl in something that vaguely resembled an informal wedding gown, while they entertained what very well might be two prospective suitors.

In the back of her mind, Hermione knew she understood both sides of the barely-held discussion. As a mother, Bellatrix wanted to be certain her daughter had options—that she would be cared for, should anything happen to her parents. As a father, Rodolphus was already protective of her, and wanted more time with his daughter before being made to feel like she was being taken away from him, again.

This was not the time to argue that she was capable of caring for herself, or that, no matter what her romantic future might be, _no one_ was going to take her away from her parents, now that they'd found each other.

Clearing her throat—and pretending the little smirk Orias flashed her as they all waited patiently for her response didn't send a not-entirely-unwelcome flicker of heat coursing through her—she set down her cup against its saucer. "I'm . . . given to understand they are the pure-blood equivalent of the Muggle organization known as the Illuminati."

With a thoughtful frown, Tom nodded and sat back, his gaze never leaving her face. "I suppose I could see the comparison. Mysterious organization that might, or might not, exist, whispered about in the darkest corners, but never legitimately proven real or a fabrication of paranoid conspiracy theorists?"

Her brow furrowing, Hermione shook her head. "I hardly think one can call all talk of Illuminati a 'paranoid conspiracy,' as word of them stretches back into history. In fact, the original term was in reference to a group known as the Bavarian Illuminati, founded in 1776, during the Age of Enlightenment; the group was a society of scholars. It was only later, when they were . . . ." She allowed her voice to trail off as she realized she'd gone off on one of her classic tears—classic tears to which no one in this room was accustomed.

Folding her lips inward, she dropped her gaze into her lap. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No, no." Tom said, a smile in his voice as he leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand over hers. "Do not apologize for proving your intellect. It is a treasure."

Hermione looked up at him, unable to help a smile of her own at his encouragement. She missed Orias, on her other side, rolling his eyes so hard the lids fluttered.

"And, you would not be completely wrong in your comparison. Bella, ward the room, please."

Nodding, Mother produced her wand, giving a single tap in the air. Shimmering light burst forth and shot toward each wall, coating their surroundings in a brilliant, translucent bubble.

Once he was assured no one—he did not trust the snooping paparazzi not to lurk outside the Lestranges' windows—could overhear them, he adopted a far more serious expression. "Your noting of the Bavarian Illuminati is, I believe, a far better equivalent for what the Death Eaters are. Not some shadowy megalomaniacal entity, muttered about in the deepest recesses, as Muggle society would have one think of the _Illuminati._ "

Hermione only tipped her head to one side, holding his gaze as he explained. She wasn't positive where he was going with this discussion, but she did have an idea, based in the sudden need for privacy.

Leaning nearer, still, he dropped his voice to a gravelly, delicious-sounding whisper. "The Death Eaters—what they truly are—are the keepers of ancient knowledge. They are the ones entrusted with secrets lost to the ages."

She straightened up slow, more aware than before of everyone's attention on her. "Secrets . . . . Secrets such as curing disease with a werewolf bite?"

Once more, Tom smiled. "You are as quick as you seem."

Hermione glanced at each of them, in turn. All four stared back, so focused on her response, it seemed, they barely blinked. "Should I guess why you would have such assured knowledge of their purpose?"

"Do you really need to _guess_?"

"You're the Death Eaters." Of course, it wasn't a question.

Bellatrix gave a tightlipped grin. "We are a handful of the core members, yes." With a sigh, Mother left her chair and rounded the table to come to her daughter's side. Lowering to kneel beside the younger witch, she clasped Hermione's free hand—ignoring that their Lord had yet to relinquish claim of the other—between both of her own. "In exchange for curing you, we had to promise you would take your place by our side. We had to promise you would be brought into the fold, and join us as Death Eaters."

Hermione blinked hard as she shook her head. "You . . . you made a promise on my behalf without my a _ctual_ consent, nor any possession, on my part, of even the smallest scrap of information on the matter?"

Rodolphus winced at his daughter's words. He could hardly call it an _accusation_ , as her question was a clearly evidenced truth, but the scathing disbelief in her tone was hard to hear.

Bellatrix only sighed, nodding. She had expected this sort of response—after all, Hermione was her child. She'd inherited the Black temperament, that seemed certain. "Please, understand . . . . We were in a panic when you revealed that you had the illness. We only knew we needed to find a solution, and time was _not_ on our side."

When Hermione still looked petulant, her mother sighed, once more. Bellatrix understood she needed to dress this up in a way Hermione's intellect would allow her to grasp. "We didn't know if we'd have time to explain everything to you, verify that the bite was, in fact, a cure, and _then_ secure Greyback's cooperation. There were simply too many variables, and not knowing how much time you had, we could not run the risk. And, of course, there was the small matter of not being able to tell you of the Death Eaters without bringing you into the fold."

"Which is not your parents' fault, but a tenant long held within our circle, I'm afraid," Tom said, frowning. The last thing he needed would be for Hermione to hold him responsible for merely enforcing one of the most ancient and basic traditions of their society. "It is how we keep our purpose secret, and how we have managed to keep evidence of our existence to murky whispers, at best, over centuries."

The younger witch glowered in silence as she tried to consider their side. Her parents had been distraught, that much she understood. Tom was clearly in charge of things, such was evident from the group's collective behavior. And if he was speaking truthfully, then they were only upholding their laws.

And . . . keepers of ancient knowledge? Entrusted with secrets lost to the ages? That was what they were, and they wanted _her_ to be part of it? Knowledge was the thing she'd hungered for her entire life, the thing through which she connected with the world around her.

Knowledge for knowledge's sake had been the first thing to ever make sense to her. Though, she did have to admit that in recent days, the introduction of Fenrir Greyback into her life had caused a new, entirely much more raw and physical, aspect of life to make sense to her, as well.

She wasn't certain if she was thrilled by that, or terrified of it.

Swallowing hard, she looked around at everyone, once more. Her parents both looked positively beside themselves with how upset she was, Tom simply watched her expression with his brow furrowed. Orias Mulciber had sat back, his arms folded across his chest as he still stared at her, expectantly—she imagined from his posture that he had his long legs crossed at the ankles beneath the table.

She had to will herself to ignore that both he and Tom were _so_ pretty it made her eyes hurt.

Orias had been silent this entire time, and though perhaps there was nothing for him to input here, it did make Hermione curious as to what might be going through the mountain-sized wizard's mind.

"What would you do?"

Orias arched a brow. Though he continued to hold her gaze, he was not oblivious to the other three Death Eaters in the room snapping their heads around to pin him their collective attention on him. "Me?"

She nodded. "While I'm fairly certain saying a polite 'no, thank you' is not an option . . . . Were you in my place, what would you do?"

Exhaling sharply through his nostrils, Orias smirked, again. "Well, you should know your parents have been bragging about you."

Hermione tried to keep her features carefully schooled—after all, she was still upset with them—even as she felt her heart lighten a little at that. "They have?"

He nodded. "Very proud of your intellect, these two. And, hearing how you've handled yourself in this conversation? You're _more_ than smart, little witch. How can you even consider saying no to the sort of knowledge being in our ranks would grant you access to?"

Gods, she had to will away a shiver at that deep voice of his. But he was correct, of course—timbre that made her want to crawl all over him notwithstanding. Forcing yet another gulp down her throat, she collected herself and gave a shake of her head.

"Are you all right?"

At Tom's question, at the gentle squeeze of his hand around hers, Hermione realized her eyes had drifted closed. Was . . . was she focusing on her breathing? Yes, it seemed she might've been—that she'd taken measure to calm herself and had not even noticed.

"Um, yes, sorry. I just . . . ." She chewed at her bottom lip as she met Tom's gaze, once more. "I think I'm just not as recuperated as I'd thought earlier, is all. I'm still a bit winded and—" Hermione cut her words off for a second, here, forcing herself not to glance in Orias' direction as she said, "And feverish."

Tom tutted, concern in his blue eyes as he held the back of his free hand to her cheek. His touch was soothing, his skin cool against hers. She pushed herself to let the gesture calm her. If she didn't allow _something_ to settle her sudden agitation, she was going to end up climbing one her _possible_ -suitors before the day was through.

"You are a bit warm." There was a crestfallen edge to Tom's voice as he let his hand fall away from her—though, it did not go unnoticed by him that she pulled in a sharp breath as he'd allowed his fingertips to trail just below her jaw before pulling away. "Perhaps it would be best to let you return to your room and rest. And here I was hoping you'd feel up to seeing the Riddle Family Library."

Just like that, Hermione was sitting up perfectly straight, her gaze unblinking as she continued to stare back at him. "Library?"

With a sheepish half-grin, Tom nodded. "Yes, it's actually quite expansive, and has a small sampling of the sort of knowledge you'd be privy to, once you join us. I thought, perhaps that could entice you to—"

"Oh, I'm sure I'm at least well enough to walk through a library." Hermione turned her attention on her parents so fast, she never noticed the way Tom's smile widened, taking on a wicked gleam for the quickest moment. "May I go?"

Bellatrix uttered an awkward laugh, pushing up to stand as she dropped her gaze to the floor. "Hermione, darling, you're a grown woman. You needn't ask our permission."

Rodolphus shot his wife a look of disbelief, though his words were directed at his daughter as he said, "Though, such formality and consideration is _very_ much appreciated."

The sudden turn of the discussion reminded Hermione of one very important thing, one thing they'd all seemed to forget. More than just Death Eaters and ancient wolf-bite cures, this entire life she was in was still so very new to her. She was not raised a pure-blood, and she had no idea what their etiquette or social graces demanded.

At the way their daughter's face fell, both Lestranges cursed their own behavior.

"I'm, I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head as she seemed to crumble in on herself. "There's so much I don't know about how I'm expected to behave. I—I don't know when I'm doing something wrong, or something I say or do is inappropriate, and I'm sorry."

Oh, it was _precious_ the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, wasn't it? Tom thought with an inward grin. Outwardly, however, he plastered a sympathetic expression on his face.

Sliding out of his seat, he knelt beside her, the way her mother had only moments earlier, her hand still clasped in his. "You've done nothing wrong, it's simply difficult for your parents, because they want to give you freedom, but also want to keep you close. If you wish to come with me, that is up to _you_ , but yes, I—and I'm certain, they—would prefer that you do not simply make decisions without at least informing them of what those decisions are."

Letting her riled nerves settle at how simple he'd just made everything sound, she drew in a deep breath and nodded. Turning her attention to her parents, she said, "I am accepting Tom's invitation to visit his library. I will return in time for dinner."

Rodolphus nodded in response, though, Hermione didn't miss the fatherly look of warning he shot Tom—she supposed being in charge didn't shield the man from something like that. "Very well, darling," he said, stepping over to her and dropping a kiss on her cheek.

Strangely, Hermione saw what she thought was a flicker of anger across her mother's face. It must've been a trick of the light, she told herself, as it was there and gone, sooner than she could blink.

Or, her imagination—thought she could not begin to fathom why—because Bellatrix, as well, stepped over and gave her daughter a parting kiss on her other cheek. "Now, don't make a nuisance of yourself, and if you're going to be late, let us know. You may be a grown woman, but we'll still worry."

Hermione smiled at her mother, reassured that there had been no anger there, from the way the older witch returned her daughter's brightened expression so winningly.

Tom stood, his hand never having released hers, and assisted her to her feet in a gentlemanly gesture.

As he led her around the table and toward the door, that voice that made Hermione's insides quiver too damn sweetly halted them.

"It's been a while since I've perused the volumes in the Riddle Family Library," Orias said, as he stood from his chair and stretched, rather like an overly-large feline.

Hermione swallowed hard, keenly aware of Orias' attention on her—of his notice of her gaze on him—as he'd moved like that.

Looking to Tom, the taller man grinned. "Mind if I tag along, My Lord?"

Orias was positive it was more than his imagination that the smile on Lord Thomas Riddle, Jr.'s face had become pained and maybe a touch angry, that he was possibly even forcing the words out through lightly clenched teeth as he answered, "Certainly, Mulciber."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Hermione didn't know which was the greater factor in her racing pulse as she was led through the Floo to Riddle Estate, that Tom had not relinquished his delicate grip on her hand the entire time, or that she was so _very_ aware of Orias' presence behind her. She was guided, quietly, through a study that nearly out-matched the one in Lestrange Manor—at least the one on the first floor, but she'd had yet to poke her head into the third floor study Father used for reflection, so she couldn't speak to the comforts or style of that room—and through a lavishly decorated corridor.

She couldn't say she was oblivious to the tension between the men in her company, but she could certainly pretend to be. And, she thought, she would have to do exactly that, as she was rather certain _she_ was the source of it.

Desperate for something to distract them—and herself, since she thought if someone didn't say something, soon, she very well would make her thoughts from a few minutes earlier a reality and start climbing on one of them in a _most_ unladylike fashion—she turned her attention to one of the many portraits lining the walls.

The occupant of this painting was snoozing lightly, and she didn't want to disturb the dark-haired woman. Her chin in her hand, her fingers were curled around the stem of a rose, their placement careful to avoid thorns that had yet to be plucked from the veiny green surface.

"Merope Gaunt?" Hermione whispered, reading from the gold plate beneath the image.

Tom let out a wistful sigh, his shoulders sloping a bit as he turned to look at the image with her. "My mother. In fact, the magical family name is Gaunt, but she passed last summer—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

He turned a sympathetic grin on her as he nodded. Hermione Lestrange was proving to be sweet enough to devour, Tom thought, though he was careful to keep that notion from colouring his expression.

Clearing his throat, he went on. "Your condolences are appreciated. My parents were _older_ when I was born, so I suppose it was not wholly unexpected. When she took ill, the symptoms came on so fast, there was no time to arrange a cure for her."

A frown graced the witch's lips, but Tom only smiled, once more.

Shaking his head, he said in a murmur that made her insides tremble, "I've made my peace with it. As I was saying, when she passed, I inherited the estate. It, and all its holdings, came under my name."

Deliberately avoiding her body's response to him, she kept up her end of the conversation. "Hence why it's the Riddle Family Library, not Gaunt."

"Precisely."

"Don't worry," Orias cut into the conversation with a sigh. "You'll learn all the intricacies of pure-blood life, in time, little witch."

Just after reining in her reaction to Tom, she had to fight not to shiver at the exquisite combination of Orias' impossibly deep voice and the whisper of his breath over the skin of her shoulder, bared by the style of her dress. Though, she felt Tom's grip on her hand tighten fractionally, so perhaps she'd not suppressed her response as well as she'd hoped.

Tom turned on his heel and started walking, tugging her gently to follow. As she fell into step, half a pace behind him, Orias drifted closer to her.

She felt the heat of him so very near at her back only a split-second before his body brushed hers. He stepped away quick enough that the other wizard would not notice the movement.

Barely aware that she was holding her breath—yet, painfully cognizant of the warmth flooding her cheeks—she glanced over her shoulder at the towering man. His blue eyes were on hers, already.

Any thought she might've had that the maneuver could have been accidental fled with the smirk that curved his lips and the wink he gave her.

Snapping her head forward, Hermione swallowed hard. Dear _God_ , she'd thought repressing the urge to jump on him had been difficult, before. Now that he seemed to be encouraging such thoughts, she found it took every ounce of self-control she had not to turn around and throw herself on him.

An action she was positive he'd welcome . . . . Though, Tom would _probably_ take issue with it.

However, as he pulled her across the threshold into the library, thoughts that centered around either of her companions seemed to fall straight out of her head in favor of gaping at the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining every wall. She could feel the magic of the stasis charms keeping the volumes of varied ages all in like-new condition positively dripping down from shelves.

A smile curved Tom's lips as she unconsciously slid her hand from his and crossed the floor to the closest bookcase. He watched as she reached out, trailing her fingertips in the air just over the spines of the books.

"What's she doing?" Orias asked in a low voice.

Tom's eyes narrowed in an appraising look as he said, "She's seeing if any of the books, in particular, call to her."

At the Lord's mildly awed tone, the taller wizard turned to regard him. "You were expecting this?"

Arching a brow, Tom shook his head. "Expecting, no. Hoping, yes."

"So, you've seen this sort of response to spelled books before?"

"Not _seen_ , exactly."

Now it was Orias' turn to narrow his eyes. "From whom?"

"Me."

Orias hid a frown as Tom drifted further into the room to stand at Hermione's shoulder. Well, that was going to be something to compete with. Certainly, he was not a stupid man, but he did not possess that hunger for knowledge Tom and Hermione seemed to very naturally share.

And he was more than aware that while he had his own—rather potent, he was certain—methods for gaining the witch's favor, he was also aware that for one possessed of intellect like hers, a great mind capable of keeping her own turning and thirsting for more was _just_ as attractive as an impressive stature and hard-won physique.

Leaning against the doorjamb, he folded his arms across his chest and simply observed the pair for a moment. Perhaps he should simply let this go. Tom _clearly_ had designs on her, and he was both a lord, and the leader of the Death Eaters. Those things being weighed, the wisest course of action might be to step back and stop playing at getting her attentions.

But then, as he watched them, she stood on her toes to get a better view of a book on a higher shelf. The length of her dress baring her legs as it did, the flexing of her slender calves as she tried to make herself taller was a rather intriguing sight.

Made it harder to ignore that the girl had some . . . troublingly magnetic quality to her. He could let this go, he thought, again, but he wasn't so certain he wanted to give up on the chance to know what sort of sounds she made in the throes of ecstasy.

It was the same thought he'd had when she'd first locked eyes with him in her parents' study. That he wanted to drag her up against him and take her right then and there.

The pair before the shelves struck up some hushed conversation, and Orias lifted a hand to stroke thoughtfully at his beard. Tom wanted her, of course, that would be some terribly formal and public courtship—well, he wasn't dense, it would probably not be _strictly_ formal, as there was no masking the way the lord looked at her—while Orias, himself, didn't so much care for the formality or public acknowledgement. He _did_ want her, though . . . .

Perhaps, just perhaps, if he kept at this, if he made it difficult for her to choose between them . . . . Well, that certainly sparked an interesting notion.

He would keep these thoughts to himself, for now. Let her come to him, if she wanted him as much as her reactions to him would seem to indicate.

And, if the way her gaze had swept across him just now, as she cast a glance at him over her shoulder meant anything, than she most certainly did want him.

He wondered if it was fate, or some terribly amusing coincidence that a house elf popped into the room at that moment. Toddling over to his master, the creature tugged at Tom's sleeve.

Frowning, Tom leaned down to let the elf speak into his ear. He nodded after a moment, then straightened to his full height.

"I'm so very sorry, but there is an issue I must attend to. Did you come across any you'd like to perhaps borrow?"

"Oh!" Hermione let out an airy, surprised laugh. She'd not expected he'd allow her to take any of the breathtaking volumes with her. Turning back to the shelf, she had to admit, she felt drawn to one, in particular, that was a collected work of ancient fairy tales. Unlike most of books like this that she'd previously read, this one, if the title was any indication, seemed to center around creatures of the night.

"That one," she said, pointing to _Tales of Blood and Bites._ "Is . . . is that all right?" She couldn't help but voice concern at the way Tom arched a brow at her request.

"Yes, yes." He shook his head as he slid the volume from its place and held it out to her. "It's only . . . ."

As she reached to take the book, she found him reluctant to let go. "Only what?"

"Some of the stories in this are, shall we say, rather risqué. I would suggest you tread cautiously, if you are one prone to blushing."

She could not ignore the glimmer in his eyes as he'd spoken. Forcing a gulp down her throat, she nodded. "Oh, I see. I'm—I'm sure I'll be fine, thank you."

"I regret that I must implore Mulciber to see you back home."

Orias bit his lip to hold in a chuckle. _You regret? Yes, I'll_ bet _you do, My Lord._

Hermione clutched the book to her chest, nearly as though she was attempting to hide behind it, as her eyes widened. He wanted to send her off, alone, with Orias Mulciber? She hardly thought the man would do anything horrible to her, and it was only for few minutes, after all, as they were traveling by Floo, but . . . .

The thought of even a moment left unsupervised in that man's presence set off sweet, tingling pulse between her thighs.

"Is . . . is that really necessary? I mean, it's only right by Floo, so . . . ."

"I shall try not to be insulted that you are averse to my company," Orias said, that already-familiar smirk on his lips. He truly wasn't insulted—how could he be with that interesting breathy tone in her voice?

Tom shot a withering glance at Orias that the witch only missed because she'd turned wide eyes on the man in question. "It is necessary, given your recent recovery. Were the travel by Floo to disorient you, and you fell on the other side and injured yourself, it would be my fault for not seeing you safely escorted back."

Damn formality and responsibilities. If it were up to him, he'd simply have her wait until he was finished, and then escort her back, himself. But there was no telling how long this would take, and it would not be a good start to the any attempt to formally court her, were he to upset her parents by bringing her home at some ungodly hour.

And he certainly did not like the idea of leaving her alone with Mulciber, not with the way the giant of a wizard was looking at her. He would take it as a comforting thing, at the moment, that she seemed reluctant to be around the other man.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Mr. Mulciber, I didn't mean to be insulting, it's simply that—"

"Good God, woman," he said letting out a rich chuckle. "Just call me Orias."

Clearing her throat, she nodded. "Um, O—Orias. I didn't mean to be insulting, I just don't fancy needing assistance with such a small task, is all."

Tom was painfully aware that he'd left the servants waiting long enough, already. Plastering a grin on his face, he swept one of Hermione's hands into his own and dropped a lingering kiss on the back.

"Good evening, Hermione," he said warmly. "We'll see one another again, soon."

She reminded herself to breathe as she once more clutched the book to her chest. His look just then, and the tone of his voice, had been full of promise—a promise that seemed to be about _much_ more than chats over tea and hand-holding.

Without realizing she was moving, she'd turned to watch him leave the room. The set of his broad shoulders, and gait of his walk, were both things _well_ worth observing.

Orias' muted laugh broke into her reverie. "You can put your eyes back in your head, now, little witch."

Eeking out a small, scandalized gasp, she turned her attention to Mulciber. "I . . . I was hardly doing something wrong, you know."

"Not wrong, just . . . well, we'll say obvious, for lack of a better term."

She pouted, dropping her gaze to the floor as she shook her head. "I suppose perhaps it was, but, I'm not really used to—wait, why am I explaining myself to you?"

He waited until she once more met his gaze before he offered her a half-grin. "I don't know, why are you?"

Oh, this one was infuriating, wasn't he? Hermione glowered up at him. That should make keeping her urges about him in check simpler, that was certain.

"Orias? Please escort me home, now."

She was not prepared for him to take one of her hands from the book and guide it to wrap around his arm. His . . . very muscly arm.

Giving her body a shake, she forced herself to fall into step beside him as he started walking. She was painfully aware of every movement, or the air rushing into her lungs and out again as she breathed. It seemed as though, in her attempt to ignore the man at her side, her cognizance of everything else around her heightened.

It was only as they stepped up before the fireplace that he finally managed to ask, "Dislike me so much do you?"

"What?" She turned her head to gape up at him. His expression was more serious than anything she'd seen from him all evening. "I don't dislike you."

"Well," he said with a short laugh and a shake of his head, amused that she'd offered him such an effortless lead-in, "From the way you've been looking at me, I think it's safe to say you feel _something_ very strongly toward me."

Yet another gasp tore from her, but they were through the Floo and on the other side before she could even think of anything to say. As if Tom had predicted it, the travel did cause her some disorientation.

She swayed in place, only to feel Orias' arms slip around her, steadying her.

His face was so close, suddenly, that she could feel his breath on her lips. God, she wanted to—

"That look, right there," he said in a gravelly whisper. "I dare say you're correct, little witch. That's not _dis_ like, at all."

He straightened to his full height just as her parents came into the room, stealing from her any opportunity to argue with his assessment. And, really? What would be the point?

It seemed a whirlwind to her as Orias explained the situation that had led to him escorting her back, alone. As her parents thanked him for being _so courteous,_ and bid him good evening. As he promised to see her soon, and departed with a wink.

Even a steaming, floral scented bath after dinner had not helped put him out of her mind. Or Tom, for that matter.

Indeed, it only added to her vexed state the stories in her borrowed book brought back to her the heated dreams she'd had of Fenrir.

She eventually drifted to sleep, the book open in her lap.

* * *

A loud thud somewhere nearby stirred her from sleep. Though, even as she pulled herself to sit up and looked to find the book had slipped from the bed and fallen to the floor, she had the strangest notion that _that_ was not the sound that had woken her, at all.

Climbing out from beneath her covers, she crossed the room to her window. Closing her eyes, she listened. There it was, something just on the very edge of her hearing, but there, nonetheless.

Something was calling to her, and she wanted to go to it.

Nearly before she was aware she was moving, Hermione found herself out of her room and down the stairs. She didn't know how, but she managed to make it through the manor without causing even the faintest noise to alert any servants or her parents.

Outside, in the cool night air clad in nothing more than her nightdress, she looked about. The waning three-quarter moon hung in the sky, last night of the phase, if she was calculating correctly. Though, why she suddenly cared to be mindful of such a thing was beyond her.

It was coming from the woods that ringed the Lestrange property.

Though a voice of reason spoke up in the back of her head, telling her how _blindingly_ stupid going into the woods alone at night, unarmed, was, those wise words were smothered by curiosity and instinct. Curiosity as to what could be calling to her in such a way—instinct to simply follow the pull of whatever was reaching out to her.

She barely even felt the chill of the air. She was more aware of the sounds of the forest at night as she passed the tree-line.

More aware of the cool sweep of grass beneath the soles of her bare feet as she walked.

That was when she heard it.

" _Skönhet."_

Even now, he was only whispering, but she could hear the words. She followed his voice, finding him leaning a hip against a tree, his arms folded across his chest as he waited.

"Fenrir?"

He smirked, pushing away from the tree to stand before her. He both wanted to rip the flimsy material from her, and wanted to leave it in place—the way the cold night air had tightened her nipples beneath the silky fabric made for a rather enticing view.

"Hello, _Skönhet_."

Hermione lost all awareness of their surroundings as she gripped her fingers into his shirt and pulled his mouth down onto hers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Hermione let her eyes drift closed as they caught their breath. It was the most oddly peaceful moment—perhaps that was what made it feel so strange in the wake of tearing into each other like that. He'd just made her scream to the heavens, and yet . . . .

And yet, he lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other wrapped loose around her shoulders. He stared up at the night sky, a blade of grass between his teeth. As peaceful as if he'd just roused from a lazy afternoon nap.

"Something's troubling you," he said, his voice low against the silence of the forest.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slow, enjoying the way his pitch caused his chest to rumble beneath her ear. "How can you tell?"

Fenrir shrugged against her, smirking. "It's an animal thing. There's a tension in your energy, which—if I do say so, myself—doesn't seem _quite_ right after having someone shag your brains out. You should be—"

"As relaxed as you are?"

He snickered. "Exactly."

"I just . . . ." Hermione knew he was right. She should be languid, sleepy, even. Yet, as she considered her recent change in thoughts, she could already feel herself getting worked up, again.

"Mmm." He let his eyes drift closed and inhaled deep through his nostrils. "Whatever it is makes you smell absolutely delectable."

Biting hard into her bottom lip, she forced herself to stay focused. Though, his tone and how enticed he seemed at scenting her arousal made that very difficult. "I just have noticed something different about myself since the last time we . . . were _together_."

The werewolf uttered a soft, rumbling growl as he shifted his hold on her, slipping his arm beneath hers. She made the most delightful almost-purring sound as he cupped her breast, circling her nipple with teasing fingertips.

"Different how?" He was hoping she'd realize what was happening to her on her own, that she'd come to him with the question and he could pretend to be genuinely surprised as he made the realization aloud that she was turning.

She closed her eyes, pressing tighter to him as she draped her leg across his hips. "I can't control my own thoughts. Did you know the entire week I was stuck in bed while the cure was taking affect, I kept dreaming about doing the most . . . amazingly sinful things with you?"

"Oh?" Fenrir chuckled, his laugh only deepening when he pulled her to sit up, straddling him. "What else?"

Hermione trembled, keenly aware of the feel of him growing hard, again, beneath her. "I find myself wanting to—to _climb_ men I've just been introduced to, and—"

" _What_ men?"

She froze, uncertain of what to make of the sudden ferocity in his tone, of the feel of his fingers digging into her skin as they closed over her hips. Had she crossed a line and made him angry with her admission, or did it stir him, somehow?

Using his hands on her, he shifted her back, positioning himself to enter her, but then he held her there, leaving her waiting as he asked again in a hissing breath, "What men, _Skönhet_?"

She trembled again—it was nearly too much. Being held by him this way, his grip absolutely unforgiving, and completely aware that he would not let her move—that he'd not give into what they both wanted until she answered him. But, even simply thinking of them as she stared into Fenrir Greyback's amber eyes, as he bared his teeth and pinned her so effortlessly above him like this . . . .

Dear _God_ , she thought her insides might melt.

"L—Lord Thomas Riddle, and Orias Mulciber."

The skin beneath his eyes pinched as he considered those names. _Oh . . . ._ He'd given her a type by handling her the way he had that night. He smirked, pulling her down as he thrust his hips upward, driving into her. He was going to have to break this to her, himself, now.

It would be the only way to control the situation.

Fenrir sat up, circling her with his arms and moving her over him in rough, rocking motions. "Oh, my precious thing," he whispered, chuckling as she threw back her head and choked out an ecstatic gasp.

Hermione shuddered in his embrace, trying hard to hold onto her thoughts with the warm, delicious sparks his thrusts were forcing through her. "So you're . . . ?" _Oh, good_ Lord, _Hermione, just stop thinking!_ "You're not angry with me?"

"Can't say I'm not—" He sank his teeth into her shoulder a moment, covering a groan at the way her body clenched around him. " _Mmm_ , can't say I'm not a little bit jealous, but . . . perhaps you're the one who should be angry with me."

She nudged his head up, nibbling at his lips as she pressed herself harder against the jerking of his pelvis. "Wh—why?"

"Let's finish this _first_ ," he said, a growl edging his tone.

When she nodded in response, he once more took her by surprise. Pulling her from his lap—and relishing the somewhat feral sound of disappointment she uttered at his withdrawal—he all but threw her to the ground before him on her hands and knees. It all happened so fast, Hermione barely had time to register the change in position before Fenrir sank his hand into her hair, his fingers curling into a fist. He clamped his other hand around her hip, throwing his head back to let out a feral sound of his own as he thrust forward, entering her, once more.

Fighting to gain her bearings amid the tangle pleasure and pain washing over her, she leaned forward to brace her weight on her elbows. She arched her back, lifting herself toward him. The angle made him sink deeper, causing fine tremors to wrack her. Whimpering moans tore out of her at the sensation of him moving harder and faster and the sweet tingling his near-violent motions sent through her.

As they came, sounds that were distinctly inhuman issuing from both of them, as they spent themselves and once more collapsed to the forest floor, breathless and weak-limbed, she understood what he was getting it. As he pulled her over him, again, his mouth capturing hers in a brutal, searing kiss, as she gave in, kissing him back just as roughly, she knew why he thought she should be the angry one.

The heat in her eyes when she'd first met Orias, the animal instinct to . . . to do things to him, her response to Tom's leader of the pack demeanor . . . . The way Fenrir had called to her tonight . . . .

As they broke the kiss, she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. "The bite is turning me, isn't it?"

 _She_ is _good. Act contrite, stupid!_ "I think so . . . I'm sorry."

Hermione pulled herself to sit up as she chewed at her bottom lip in thought.

"It's why you're reacting to them the way you are. Alpha-males . . . your instincts are telling you to dominate them, or bend to them, and it's your mind that's not sure which one is the better option."

"You're telling me I want to . . . well, you _know_ , but you're not angry?" She couldn't quite seem to wrap her head around that. She was pretty sure she'd tear any woman she caught sniffing around him—or Orias Mulciber, or Lord Riddle—limb from limb. Oh, but then, that sort of territorial thing was probably the instincts, as well, and he'd been a werewolf a long time, from what she'd been told. Perhaps he'd learned to balance out such purely reactive thinking by now.

"As I said, I can't say I'm not at least a little jealous." He reached out, slipping his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her in for another kiss before going on. "But . . . I have made no claim over you, so it's not as though you're betraying something we have, now is it?"

"I suppose not."

Fenrir nodded. "Exactly. You and I are connected by, well, let's be honest, some pretty fucking amazing chemistry." He paused, nodding as she giggled in agreement. "But I have no say over what you do, or who you do it with. I'm good with what we've got between us, now, if you are."

Her brows shot up as she nodded. "Oh, I'm _good_ with it."

The werewolf chuckled at that. "Although . . . ."

"Although?"

Sitting up, he shifted her in his arms, turning her to sit in his lap. She remained silent, though she liked very much the secure feeling of his arms wrapping around her, and the way it made her feel so tiny as he propped his chin atop her head.

"Although, it must be acknowledged that what exists between us is undeniably almost _purely_ physical. I can't stop you from pursing them, if that's what your instincts are driving you to do, but I can make a request."

Her mouth twitched side-to-side in thought as she stared out at the night-darkened forest around them. "Which is?"

"Keep me in the loop. If you are with them, if you start getting emotionally invested in what you have with them—or even what you have with me—tell me."

"So, you mean, tell you as in, just keep you informed, or tell you as in a play-by-play of interactions?"

Again, he chuckled. "Sometimes your intelligence is infuriating, _Skönhet_. I had only meant keeping me informed, but now that I think about it . . . . "

She shifted in his lap to look up at him. "Now that you're thinking about it?"

He smirked—again with that wicked, mischievous expression he and Mucliber seemed to have in common. "It might be . . . arousing to hear you talk about seducing someone, or being seduced by someone."

"It might be?" Hermione's eyes shot wide at that.

Nodding, he chuckled. "Hell, yeah. But . . . _but_ , that is a might. Let's test that out before committing to it, because if it just ends up angering me, that's not something either of us wants."

The witch nodded, as well. She'd only seen these sides of him—the easily amused joker and the ferocious lover. She had the distinct impression she didn't want to see what side he showed when he was angry.

"You're handling this rather well," he said, totally oblivious to the unhappy turn of her thoughts. "I had expected much more, hmm, well, much more _something_ about the idea of becoming a werewolf."

Hermione shrugged, allowing the change of subject to redirect her mind. "Well, it's . . . it's going to be difficult, but it's hardly the Wizarding Dark Ages, anymore. Werewolves aren't feared and hunted, any longer. I could lead a normal life, aside from those few pesky nights of the full moon each month."

He frowned thoughtfully. "Huh. That is a very pragmatic attitude about the matter."

"Well, that, and I knew going into this that turning was a possibility. I just . . . ."

Fenrir arched a brow, nudging her head up with his chin so she met his eyes. "Just what?"

"Could we keep this to ourselves, for now?"

"Of course."

Nodding, Hermione turned her head to look out at the forest, once more. Resting her arms over his, she merely sat with him in silence for a long while as she wondered how on earth she was going to break this to her parents. They, too, had known this was a possibility when they'd agreed to this cure, but she had a feeling there was no way they were prepared for this possibility to become reality.

All she knew for certain was that she was not going to let this news define her. She would maintain a facade of total normalcy until . . . .

Until she just _couldn't_ , anymore.

* * *

She must've drifted off at some point, because the next thing she knew, she woke up in her bed. Though, she was under her covers and her nightdress was back on, she quickly discovered that once again, Fenrir had stolen her knickers.

Laughing and shaking her head, she tried to wrap her mind around the conversation they'd had last night. _Alpha-males . . . your instincts are telling you to dominate them, or bend to them, and it's your mind that's not sure which one is the better option_.

The mental images that accompanied either so-called option brought a blush to her cheeks and set off that damned sweet, heated tingling between her thighs, as though she'd not had sex in months, rather than having just shagged a werewolf a mere few hours ago. _Twice!_

Hermione buried her face in her pillow to muffle a frustrated shriek as she tried to will away the delectable, torturous imaginings.

* * *

"Hermione, dear? Could you run a quick errand for me?"

The younger witch backpedaled in the corridor, retreating to the doorway where she'd heard her mother's voice. Poking her head into the study, she saw the other woman toiling away at some open scrolls while seated behind the desk.

"What is it?"

Without looking up from her paperwork, Bellatrix tapped the end of her quill against a brown paper-wrapped parcel before her. "I know this is a bit informal, but would you mind terribly taking this over to Orias for me?"

Hermione's brows shot up and she blinked several times in rapid succession. "Pardon?"

"Well, I'd send one of the elves, but they're seeing to dinner preparations, and one of the horses took ill, so they're also tending her. Besides, it seemed you and he were . . . rather intrigued by each other, if I do say so, myself. Thought you might like an excuse to chat privately with him."

 _If I'm in private with him, I'm sure_ chatting _will be the least of my concerns_ , the young woman thought with an uneasy frown. She should've realized her mother was not oblivious to the situation, but she'd have thought that of the two gentlemen in their home yesterday, a lady of Bellatrix Lestrange's standing would prefer her daughter consider the _lord_ , instead.

"So you . . . ?" Hermione cleared her throat as she picked up the parcel and turned it in her hands. "You would approve of such a match? If . . . I mean, if that's what I wanted?"

"Darling, I am your mother," Bellatrix said with a shake of her head as she paused in writing to look over her work. "Your happiness is of the utmost importance to me. Then, of course, there's the matter of me not being blind, or dead. I'm well aware of the fact that Mr. Orias Mulciber is . . . well, he certainly is _something_ , isn't he?"

"Mother!" Hermione choked out a playfully scandalized laugh.

Setting down her work, Bellatrix grinned at her daughter. "Oh, please. I'm perfectly happy with your father, but as stated, I'm neither blind nor dead. Can't help but notice that man's nice looking from _every_ angle. Of course, he's also intelligent, from a family nearly as ancient and noble as the Blacks or the Lestranges. It would actually be a smart match, and one, I think you'd probably enjoy."

The younger witch only made another shocked and mirthful sound at the wink her mother sent her at that.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, you _must_ stop that! You're a grown woman, after all."

After a moment of silence, Hermione looked down at the parcel in her hands. That quick flash of anger she'd seen cross Mother's face yesterday afternoon when Tom had helped Hermione to her feet came back to her mind. No matter how she tried to push it back into a corner, the image seemed firm before her mind's eye.

"Mother?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Is . . . is there some reason you don't want me to spend time with T—with Lord Riddle?"

Bellatrix froze mid-motion as she was about to start back to her writing. "Why would you ask that, my dear?"

Biting her lip as she considered how to explain it, Hermione shrugged. "Just . . . you seemed upset yesterday when he asked me to go to his family's library. I couldn't figure out why, and it was only for a split-second that I noticed it, so I convinced myself it was nothing. But the look on your face in that moment, it just keeps coming back to me. Do you not like him?"

Mother's dark-eyed gaze immediately snapped up to lock on her daughter's. For a few heartbeats, she remained silent. Tearing her attention away at last, she breathed a weighted sigh and shook her head.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, it's not that. The Lord has . . . many good qualities. He's intelligent, refined, patient, handsome, indeed _also_ from a fine bloodline. All qualities that would normally make him a wonderful match, especially for a witch of your lineage and intellect. However," Bellatrix paused, shaking her head as she met her daughter's eyes, once more. "A man like that has so many responsibilities. I fear that with all he has on his plate at most times, he would have little time to make a good or attentive husband."

"I'm not really interested in considering marriage to _anyone_ just yet, Mother." Chatting, and teas, basic Muggle-style dating, she could certainly consider, but talking about marriage to men she just met yesterday? That was madness on the face of it! The only reason she'd even entertained the thought of matches in such an old-world way of thinking was because she knew such practices were not entirely out of the realm of possibility for pure-bloods. As far as she was aware, most pure-blood marriages started out as arranged matches.

"Of course you're not, but in any match you get involved in, you must consider that there is always the _possibility_. I would not want you to invest too much of your heart into a relationship that would seem doomed to fail."

"I see." Hermione wasn't quite sure why, but she felt a lump threatening in her throat at that moment. "Then, I'll just pop over to Mulciber Manor and give him this."

Smiling and nodding, Bellatrix returned to her work. "Take as long as you like, darling. Dinner won't be served for some time, yet."

Nodding in return, the younger witch made her way from the room.

When she heard her daughter's footfalls vanish down the corridor in the direction of the parlor's fireplace, Bellatrix set down her quill and sat back in her chair. Her gaze fixed on the doorway, she shook her head.

Of course, this was _nothing_. Lord Riddle was all the things she'd said, and she was happy with her husband. This possessiveness toward him was merely . . . merely an infatuation she had. A fantasy to be entertained and then dismissed when she tired of it.

She simply didn't want to see another woman involved with him _until_ she had dismissed the fantasy. That was _all_. Because then, she might feel something stupid and irrational, like jealousy, and she refused to be jealous of her own daughter.

Yes, just a passing infatuation, she told herself again.

Returning her attention to the work before her, Bellatrix noticed a few drops of crimson on the scroll. With a frown, she looked for the source and realized . . . at some point during the conversation, she'd injured herself.

Examining the crescent shaped punctures in her palm she became aware, in a fuzzy sort of hindsight, of digging her nails into her hand. She reached across the desk to snatch up a few tissues and pressed them to the wound.

She went back over the discussion in her head, trying to pinpoint when, exactly, she'd done this. _Is . . . is there some reason you don't want me to spend time with T—with Lord Riddle?_

Yes, now she remembered a flash of pain after her daughter had asked that question.

Shaking her head and schooling her features, the witch decided it best to simply put the matter out of her head, for now. She returned to her papers and picked up the quill, once more.

Yes, yes, because that's all this was. A fleeting infatuation. A passing fantasy she'd tire of.

Nothing concerning, whatsoever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Hermione was surprised when she stepped through the Floo with ease. There was no hold, no resistance as she waited for the Manor's owner to admit her entry.

She walked from the fireplace to the center of the parlor, glancing about. It was a very strange feeling to be in someone's home with them possibly not knowing she was there. Was he expecting her? Or at least someone from Lestrange Manor to drop by and deliver this . . . this whatever it was in the parcel she held?

"Hello?"

No response. She was a little disconcerted at the way her voice echoed through the room, and the echo of her heels against the finely polished hardwood floor probably didn't help ease her nerves, either. Of course, she'd prefer trainers and jeans, but Mother had insisted she dress like the _pure-blood princess_ she was, and so her entire wardrobe was gowns, dresses and gorgeous shoes that probably cost more than most people's homes, per-pair. She couldn't say she was complaining about being so spoilt—though, she didn't see the point in such extravagance—but, at the moment, she felt she could very _much_ complain about her mother sending her into Orias Mulciber's home, seemingly unannounced, in a very eye-catching satin red dress and matched heels.

Though, now that she was thinking on it as she crossed the room and stepped into foyer, this might be less inflammatory than sticking her in a white dress. Now that she understood what she was becoming, she thought she could make sense of Tom and Orias' behavior yesterday. Perhaps—given her own, notably agitated, state in their combined presence—she'd been emitting pheromones and not even realized.

She couldn't imagine that mashing together her apparent animal magnetism with that sweetly-virginal attire didn't appeal to them. Men were men, after all.

"Men are men," she whispered as she looked along the corridors branching off from the foyer. Perhaps, then, eye-catching crimson wasn't much better a choice, but she wasn't about to run home and change just for the sake of delivering a bloody package. She supposed she could always just leave it somewhere obvious for him to find, but her mother had entrusted this to her; she wanted to be certain it was delivered into his hands.

"Mr. Mulciber?"

Again, no response. Frowning, she held still to listen to her surroundings. She expected something, an elf scurrying about to handle household chores, a familiar prowling the floor, anything. But there was—

 _Wait._ She heard movement upstairs, she thought. It was only the late afternoon. She highly doubted he was already out for the evening and that was a burglar making noise. Even if he were out, and that was an elf tending some task or another, she still liked the idea of handing the package over to his housekeeper over leaving it on a shelf, or something.

"Hello? Mr. Mulciber?"

Still there was nothing.

Sighing and shaking her head, Hermione started up the staircase toward the sound she was hearing—unidentifiable, but insistent. She couldn't help but wonder if Mother's objective in sending her here, alone, was more than simply because she thought Orias was a better match for her than Tom. Was Bellatrix trying to force onto the younger witch a familiarity with Mulciber Manor?

That seemed possible, of course. She'd not missed anything during tea yesterday—Mother had been upset by Tom's attentions. Though, with his position, if he wanted to make overtures, Hermione knew there was nothing the other woman could very much do to stop him. For herself, however, she was not so keen on doing anything of which her mother disapproved so strongly.

"Mr. Mulciber?" she called again as she reached the top of the stairs.

That was when she recognized the sound. The splashing of water, gentle, not the result of an active motion, but more of a swaying. Craning her neck to peer down the corridor, she saw the open bathroom door.

Her brows shooting up, she knew she should turn and descend the staircase. She should just . . . forget this, find an obvious spot to leave the parcel, and return home.

But she was curious. And, Merlin help her, her curiosity was overriding her common sense, just now.

Creeping down the corridor toward the open bathroom door, she called again—though, for some unknown reason, her voice had dropped to just below normal speaking volume. "Hello? Mr. Mulciber?" Huh, there was even an unexpected sing-song lilt to her words.

"Mr. Mulciber?" she tried once more, however _tried_ might've been a bit of an exaggeration.

She poked her head around the doorjamb to find a rather large and resplendent bathroom, but she saw no one. Frowning, she stepped inside. There was the faint splashing, again.

"Mr. Mulci—?" That was when she spotted the arm hanging over the lip of the tub. The grand, clawfoot tub at the far end of the room.

She hadn't noticed him there because he'd been so still, but now she turned the weight of her full attention on the tub.

His head back against the basin, and the dampness-darkened waves of his blond hair hanging limp against his shoulders, his blue eyes were locked on her. But there was a sleepy quality to his expression, as though he'd dozed off during his bath and had only just woken up.

Yet, as she realized the complete inappropriateness of the situation, her senses came screaming back to her. "I'm—I'm sorry I woke you. I just . . . I . . . . My mother asked me to deliver this to you, and I wanted to . . . . Wanted to make sure you got it."

Nodding slow as he held her gaze, he pulled himself to sit up in the tub.

Hermione closed her eyes against that pesky burning sensation, painfully aware of the blush flaring in her cheeks. "I'll just leave this outside the door, then."

Spinning on her heel, she knelt down and dropped the package gently to the floor. As she stood, however, she heard more splashing. _Active_ splashing, this time. She felt her breath catch in her throat, knowing that if she looked back just now, she would find he'd stood up from the water.

"Do you think you could at least toss me a towel, little witch?"

She turned her head, but didn't look at him.

"They're right by the door."

Nodding, she grabbed a towel from the marble shelf beside the entryway. But then, she realized unpleasantly that she couldn't simply toss it over her shoulder—she barely had good aim when she was looking directly at her target.

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. As she turned back to face him, she swore to herself she'd keep her eyes on his face, and toss him the towel, just like he'd asked.

And she did . . . . At least, as far as keeping her eyes on his face, that was. The towel, however, she clutched between both hands as she found herself crossing the tiled floor. If he was surprised to find her walking toward him, he gave no outward sign.

He stepped out of the tub as she reached him, taking the towel from her. Instead of wrapping it around his hips, however, he merely held the bundle of fabric against his chest.

"Somehow," he said with a thoughtful frown, "I get the distinct impression that you'd rather I _not_ cover up."

God, it felt like her entire body was blushing as she stared up at him. She was aware of _everything,_ it seemed—the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the steam in the air from his bath, the simple nearness of him as he stood before her, completely bare and every inch of him covered in warm droplets.

 _Your instincts are telling you to dominate them, or bend to them . . . ._ And, perhaps it was those new, troubling wolf instincts in control, now, as she thought how very much she wanted to dominate the man in front of her.

Of how very much she wanted him to want her. Of how very much she wanted to leave him _wanting_ . . . .

Holding his gaze she tugged the towel from his fingers and started patting him dry. Over his chest, along his abdomen, across his hips and down the flat plane below his navel.

He was too tall for her to simply stand on her toes and close the distance between them on her own, but it seemed he was holding back on purpose. She knew he was eager to see what she would do—to see how far she would take this—after her skittishness around him yesterday.

Hermione settled for starting at eye-level. She leaned close, pressing a lingering kiss to his sternum. He let out a sound that was almost a surprised breath, but made no move to stop her. Towel still in hand, she wrapped her fingers around him, working the fabric in slow, gentle strokes.

Orias shivered, his eyes drifting closed as he let his head fall back. He clasped his hands behind his back—actually, he desperately wanted to grip his hands into her hair and force her lower, but she was so intent on what she was doing, the witch nearly seemed in a trance, and he didn't want to do anything that might snap her back to her senses sooner than _either_ of them would like.

But she moved lower on her own, dragging her lips and tongue down his skin, following the path she'd dried. The rumbling in the back of his throat, just then—clearly a frustrated sound that she was taking her time about it—drew a breathless giggle from her. She refused to quicken the stroking of her hand, or the descent of her kisses.

As she dropped below his navel, she couldn't help her curiosity. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him as she used her free hand to pull the length of her dress away as she got on her knees. From the angle, she could see that lovely, bearded jaw of his working as he let out an impatient groan.

Hermione hated to admit it, she wanted to forego this and just climb him, like her body had been screaming at her to do since first laying eyes on him. As she slid the towel away, holding what was in fact a _very_ impressive endowment to her lips, she considered how she wanted to just wrap her legs around him and let him sink into her.

She lapped and nibbled at the tip, enjoying the hissing breath he drew in. Tipping her head to one side, she slid her mouth over him. The way he tensed as she drew on him in long, suckling pulls was _divine_.

Orias really couldn't believe this was happening. The sweep of her tongue along the delicate line of skin underneath, and how she pulled back every now and then to nibble teasingly, once more, made him wonder just how long he could hold on if she kept at this . . . .

Made him forget that he hadn't wanted to interfere with whatever she was thinking.

He jerked his hips, forcing himself through her lips just a bit faster, startling her.

She withdrew, letting him slip from between her lips and stared up at him. Her chestnut eyes were wide and unblinking as the color drained from her cheeks.

At the sudden absence of her mouth, he realized he'd done exactly what he hadn't wanted to. Whatever had possessed her up until a moment ago had fled.

Lowering his head to meet her gaze, he cupped a gentle hand beneath her chin. Maybe she was embarrassed that she'd been so _unbelievably_ forward, just now. "It's okay, little witch."

"No, no, it's not, I . . . ." Hermione stammered as she pulled out of his hold and climbed to her feet. "I should've have done that, I'm so—I'm so sorry."

He gave her a disbelieving once-over as she backpedaled toward the door. "You're actually leaving after _that_?"

Her brow furrowed as she shook her head. This was too much. She was losing the ability to control herself. Maybe she should stay and finish this, maybe she should see where this could go between them—after all, it was hardly as though she'd never see him, again—but she was too overwhelmed by her own actions.

"I'm sorry, M—I'm sorry, Orias," she said, her voice low and her tone carefully controlled as she finally reached the door. Whirling on her heel, she disappeared into the corridor.

Orias scowled, aware of her footfalls thudding toward the staircase and then going beyond his range of hearing as she descended the steps. If he was close enough to the landing, he'd probably hear the whoosh of flames as the witch bolted through the Floo.

Letting out a sigh, he looked down at himself. At the rumpled towel on the floor, and himself, still hard—painfully so, now—from her actions.

Uttering a mirthless chuckle, he fixed his gaze on the place he'd last seen her as he wrapped his fingers around his cock. Oh, he thought as he worked his hand over himself—his strokes not nearly as gentle as hers had been—the next time he saw her, she was _going_ to pay for making him finish what she'd started.

And she was going to scream her pretty little head off every _second_ of that payback, he'd make sure of it.

* * *

Through the Floo and across the parlor of her family's manor, out into the foyer and up the winding staircase to her bedroom, Hermione could not get what had just happened out of her head. It wasn't embarrassment, it wasn't shame, because she felt neither. Shock that she'd gone ahead and given over to something she never imagined herself doing with—no, hah, not even with, _to_ —a man she wasn't involved with was certainly one of the things running through her as she stumbled across the threshold of her room and slammed the door behind her.

Sparing a moment, she flicked the lock into place and started stripping out of her pretty, eye-catching red dress. What she felt, what she really felt, was the weight of his gaze on her as she'd crossed the room to stand before him. It was the hardness of him as she'd wrapped hand around him.

It was the taste of his skin, and the feel of him against her tongue, the sensation of him sliding between her lips.

Shaking her head, she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her undergarments as she made her way toward her en-suite bathroom. She turned on the shower, cold, at full-blast, bracing herself as she stepped beneath the icy spray.

But instantly she realized that it was doing no good.

After what she'd done—after what she'd just walked away from—all she could really feel was his skin pressed to her lips. All she could really think about was the way that having him in her mouth set off a sweet, tingling rush between her thighs.

Taking a moment to collect herself, and failing to do so, she turned the water to warm. Warmer . . . . Warmer, still, until the spray was just this side of burn-her-skin-off hot.

She tipped her head back, enjoying the feel of the pulsing droplets beating against her skin. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she arched her back, directing the path of the spray toward her breasts. God help her, she was imagining Orias Mulciber's mouth as the steaming beads of water left the slightest stinging trail across her nipples.

Hermione couldn't help herself, any longer—she was too tense, too much in need of release. Too easily able to imagine him in here with her, his arms around her and his hands sliding over her skin.

Bracing one hand against the tiled wall behind her, she slid the other between her thighs. She let her eyes drift closed, finding it _far_ too easy to pretend those were his fingers rubbing against her in quick, erratic circles.

She could actually imagine what it would sound like to hear him growling the words _come for me, little witch_ , as she brought herself to orgasm. Throwing back her head, she bit hard into her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the delicious pressure tearing through her.

Good God, she couldn't deny it. Even in this moment of self-relief, she wanted him _so_ bad she started to wonder if it wasn't some form of madness.

All too soon, it was ebbing, and she found herself sinking to her knees in the tub. She pressed her forehead against the lip of the basin as she slowed the working of her fingertips.

"Oh, dear God," she said in a shaky whisper. "How could I be _so_ stupid?" She thought—just as she had when she'd run away from Orias—that it was hardly as though she'd never see him again.

How on earth was she going to function the next time she was face-to-face with him after what she'd just done?

* * *

"Honesty, darling, stop fussing," Bellatrix said, three nights later as she caught her daughter once more adjusting the collar of the thick black robes she was clad in—which they were all clad in.

"I'm sorry, Mother." Hermione looked about the underground chamber where people were gathering. Corridors branched off in different directions, and she couldn't help but be wildly curious about where they went. The main chamber, itself, reminded her of some extravagant, ancient cathedral.

She knew what tonight was. Tom—Lord Riddle—was going to introduce her to the Death Eaters. She wasn't one of them, yet, only an initiate. She would be expected to study magics that made what she'd learned in school and life look like parlor tricks, and to perform said magics as her rite of passage in one month's time.

Tonight was only a greeting ceremony, officially acknowledging her acceptance of her family's legacy.

"Don't worry, Bella, she's fine," Rodolphus said with a comforting grin, drawing his daughter close for a hug. "It's normal to be edgy on occasions like this."

The younger witch offered her father a grateful smile.

Mother started, her dark eyes going wide. At the same moment—as she pulled back from her father's embrace—Hermione felt the warmth of someone stepping up very close behind her.

"You're here, wonderful."

She repressed a shiver at hearing Tom's voice so close to her ear. Her response was automatic as she turned to look up at him. He wore that charming grin that she was certain could melt a bloody iceberg.

He circled her shoulders with gentle fingers and drew her toward him, dropping the quickest of kisses on her cheek. "It is good to see you, again."

Hermione had no idea how she'd stopped herself from leaning into him just now, especially when that quick kiss had dragged along her skin, brushing her ear for a split-second. "You, as well, Tom."

However, she immediately recalled her mother's disapproval of Tom getting close to her. She forced a smile that was more an obviously strained effort than she realized.

The lord's brow furrowed at her expression. "Is everything all right, Hermione?"

Though she avoided glancing in her mother's direction, she could not miss the mildly confused look on her father's face at the interaction. She understood he was not a huge fan of his daughter fancying anyone, in true fatherly fashion, but she also knew he'd thought she and Lord Riddle had taken a shine to each other.

If he was confused by her sudden awkwardness in Tom's presence, that could only mean he had no idea Mother thought them a bad match. Maybe he didn't even share his wife's thoughts on the matter.

"No, nothing," she said, at last, not eager to spark a fight between her parents, but also aware she couldn't simply not answer Tom. "I think I'm simply a little nervous about tonight. This is a lot to take in."

"Ah." Nodding, he smiled, slipping his hands around hers and giving a comforting squeeze. "Well, there's still some time before we start. Feel free to explore a bit, or even speak to the others. It is important to me that you feel welcome here."

Giving a nod of her own in response, she stayed quiet as he turned and walked away. He disappeared somewhere, presumably to start making preparations for the ceremony.

Hermione turned apologetic eyes on her mother, but Bellatrix was already frowning as she shook her head. "Don't worry, I'm certain I misspoke the other day. I simply don't want to see you get hurt, darling."

Rodolphus arched a brow as he turned his attention to his wife. "Misspoke about what the other day?"

The older woman's perfectly arched brows drew upward as she turned her head to meet his gaze. "Oh, well . . . . Hermione, Lord Riddle said you're to explore and mingle. Go on, then, while your father and I have a chat."

Bloody hell. Hermione'd tried not to give anything away, she thought Mother would read her expression, realize she'd not been trying to seem overly eager to be in Tom's presence, again, and calmly accept that her daughter was heeding her advice.

But then, Bellatrix was the one to speak up. It was her words that had piqued father's curiosity.

Nodding, the younger witch turned on her heel and started away from them. She would pretend she couldn't hear the hushed discussion behind her. Father was not pleased with Mother not letting the girl make her own decisions, was the gist of it.

Shaking her head, she wandered toward one of the corridors and peered down, trying to see something beyond the bend in the passage. She felt a shiver up her spine, but the sensation was oddly not unpleasant. Turning around, she looked about, wondering what had caused it.

That was when she saw him. Orias Mulciber had entered the chamber. He scanned the area before his gaze settled on hes. Their eyes locked, and she felt that rush of warm, tingling sweetness between her thighs.

She'd been so certain she would not know what to do the next time she saw him. Now, however, as he made a bee-line for her, she decided she knew _exactly_ what to do.

As he reached her, she could already feel her skin flush and her breath come up short. He'd not even laid a finger on her, yet.

"Little witch," he said in that lovely deep timbre of his. "Do you have _any_ idea what I had to do after—?"

"Take me somewhere."

His brows shot up at her request. "What?"

Hermione glanced about before she repeated herself. Tom said they had time, and she suddenly couldn't seem to think around the idea of Orias taking her in a gruff, purely animal way.

"I said take me somewhere."

Orias bit into his bottom lip as he gave her a quick once over. "Any place in particular you want to go?"

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. Her voice came out in a breathless, barely audible whisper as she said, "Just . . . just anywhere that you can bend me over something and no one will hear me scream."

He gave himself a shake, getting his bearings as he let her words tumble around in his head for only the barest second. Nodding, he took her hand and started leading her down the nearest tunnel without so much as a backward glance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

At the end of this particular tunnel was a small, dome-ceilinged library. After ushering her inside, Orias turned away to shut the door, closing them off from the passageway that led back to the main chamber.

All right, so, given the witch's well-known love of books, he thought that perhaps this was a poor choice of location. However, it simply was the room the tunnel they'd stood before led to, and had he tried to take her to a different one, they might've been stopped by the other and forced to—God help him— _mingle_.

Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face her, expecting that she'd be plastered to the shelves, having forgotten entirely why she asked him to take her away from the gathering. "Now, you listen to me, little witch! If you think that after the way you ran out on me the other day, I'm going to let you—"

He cut himself off as he found her right in front of him. As he watched her turn her attention to her hands moving over him as her fingers scrambled to pull open his robes.

Letting out a rough breath, Orias nodded. He tore at her robes in the same manner as he said, "That's more like it."

Hermione wasn't entirely certain how, since she started undressing him, first, but she was naked before he was. She could feel her breath catch in her throat and her skin flush as he stepped back, his open robe hanging from his arms. God, she didn't know who decided Death Eaters were to be _sky-clad_ beneath their ceremonial vestments, but she was certainly grateful.

Before she could appreciate the view, however—which seemed horribly unfair, seeing as he was getting a good eyeful, just now—he slid his fingers around the back of her neck and pulled her against him. She opened to him eagerly as he brought his mouth down on hers, his tongue plunging between her lips.

After only a moment, however, he broke the kiss.

"What?" she asked as she caught her breath, her eyes wide—if this was some sort of payback for what happened in his bathroom, she was going to make him sorry.

He shook his head. "Are you taking a contraceptive potion?"

"Of course," she said with a breathy laugh. "Modern witch, and all that."

"Oh, thank Merlin." Orias uttered a chuckle of his own, though his laugh was a sound of relief. "I always forget mine."

"Silly mountain." She leaned into him, once more, but after only the quickest kiss, he spun her around. "What are you—?"

"We don't have all that much time, little witch," he said in a gruff tone as he shook his head, once more. "And as I recall, you coaxed me in here with a _very_ specific request."

She nodded as he, holding her back against him, started walking them toward the library's small seating area. In fact, he seemed to be walking her right to the arm of the sofa.

"If I'm to give you what you want, foreplay's not _really_ an option."

"Oh." Sighing wistfully, she shrugged against him. "I suppose you're right."

Orias smirked. "Unless you really need it."

Hermione gasped as he sneaked a hand between her thighs, just then. Biting into her bottom lip, she rocked her hips against the rubbing of his fingertips, but, just as fast, he withdrew.

"It seems like you're plenty ready, as it is." He waited until she turned her head to look up at him before he slipped his fingertips into his mouth, tasting her. " _Mmm_. Could it be that you're this wet from just the thought of me taking you?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she only offered yet another shrug. With her body seeming ready to go all the time since being bitten, she had to consider that she was probably always at least a _little_ wet. "Seems so."

She let out a surprised yelp as he bent her forward over the arm of the sofa, barely giving her a moment to get her bearings before he slid into her. A sharp sweetness thudded through her, stealing her ability to even breathe as he withdrew and sank forward, again and again.

"Good _God_ , witch," he said, the words slipping out from between clenched teeth in a hissing whisper. He clamped his hands around her hips, steadying her for his strokes. "Remind me why we . . . why we haven't been doing this since the moment we met?"

Finally forcing herself to inhale, she curled her fingers into the fabric of the cushion beneath her, trying to lift herself to meet Orias' thrusts more completely. "Probably because we weren't alone when we met."

Nodding, he curled over her, dragging his teeth and the tip of his tongue down over her shoulder blades in teasing bites. She shivered under his mouth and against his motions, and he realized with a wicked thrill running through him that his sweet little witch must like things a little rough.

Hermione cried out at the sensation of his teeth sinking into the back of her neck and the way he moved into her harder and faster. "We're . . . we're _really_ going to have to do this . . . again, when we're not pressed for time."

He uttered a breathless laugh as he nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Normally, he was not a man who took orders easily, but from _her_ —and in _this_ sort of circumstance—he was certain he'd find a way to manage.

Aware they were running out of time before someone would come looking for them, he pushed himself to hurry. The way she clenched tighter around him as he quickened his pace, yet again, certainly helped his efforts.

Hermione pressed back against him, tighter, still, biting her lip to hold in a ecstatic scream. The way he drove into her in one, last, _perfectly_ violent motion as he came forced her to open her mouth and let out the cry. If she hadn't, she was sure she'd have bitten clean through her lip, and she had no idea how she'd explain the injury to the crowd outside.

He used his hands on her to pull her back against him in erratic, jerking motions as he spent himself.

She shivered as he slowed her to a halt, eventually allowing her to still against the sofa. The fine tremors that wracked her as he slid himself free elicited a little, whimpering moan from her. He let out a breathless laugh as he leaned over her, catching his breath as he swept lazy, grateful kisses across her shoulders.

"This was probably a really bad idea," he whispered, even as he nipped playfully at her skin.

Hermione nodded. "Really, _really_ , bad, there's a whole . . . a whole lot of people out there, and I doubt that door is soundproof. Neither one of us had the presence of mind to cast a bloody silencing charm."

Again, he laughed as he straightened up, pulling her with him to stand. "Who'd have thought we could both be so stupid?"

Turning to look up at him, she shrugged as she pulled his robes back up over him and started closing them for him. "I've been plenty stupid when it comes to you, already, Orias Mulciber."

"How so?" he asked as he retrieved his wand from the pocket and summoned her robes from where they'd left them by the door.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head, shivering once more as he draped her robes across her shoulders and pulled them closed. "Well, after the, um, the _incident_ in your bathroom, I was . . . . I was so worked up that when I got to my room at home, I had to . . . ."

Orias smirked, arching a brow. "You had to . . . ?"

She mirrored his eyebrow arch. "I had to sort of . . . see to myself."

His jaw fell and he gave the quickest shake of his head. "Oh, _God_ ," he said, the words no more than a pained groan.

Hermione let out a quiet giggle as he drew her against him, kissing her breathless. Realizing they were, once again, in danger of losing track of time, she pulled back, meeting his gaze.

He dropped his attention to her lips for the briefest second. "We should get out there."

"Yes, we should."

Nodding, he turned, taking her hand and leading her to the door. "On the bright side," he said as he opened it and led her through, "it'll be totally believable that we were in here so long, because I had to drag you away from the books."

Hermione bit her lip to hold in a snicker as she let Orias pull her down the tunnel, back toward the main chamber. As they stepped into the open, he relinquished his grip on her hand. They'd have to sort out what they actually were to one another when time was on their side, and that was certainly not _now_. Of course, she'd also have to break it to him about the whole werewolf thing. Many people were a lot more open-minded about lycanthropy, these days.

Who knew? Maybe he'd be fine with it.

As she looked about, she noticed Mother and Father were still carrying on that hushed discussion on the other side of the room. Tom had come onto the dais in the front of the chamber, but seemed to be preparing something.

She knew she had the freedom to do whatever she liked, but she felt strangely calmed to realize that he'd seemed to not notice her and Orias' mutual absence. Though, it did make her wonder what _his_ reaction would be if he turned out to be one of the people in her life to whom she wanted to reveal her new, wolfy secret.

* * *

He was all too aware of the moment they stepped back into the main chamber. Tom bit hard into his bottom lip, chewing thoughtfully at the delicate skin as he tried to tell himself this was innocent—Hermione Lestrange in a library was really a matter of a creature being drawn to its natural habitat.

But with how Mulciber was around her the other day . . . . He couldn't take any chances. The more he'd thought about it over the last few days, the more and more the idea of claiming the witch as his appealed to him. Honestly, he could not care less if she entertained some dalliance, but everyone was going to know she was _his_.

Clearing his throat, he stepped into the center. Holding his hands up, he said, "Welcome friends. This is a very special evening, indeed. We welcome a new member into our fold. After being stolen from her rightful place with us, she has been returned to our ranks. Hermione, if you would join me."

Her eyes shooting wide—though, she knew she was going to be expected to present herself to the gathering—she glanced at her parents. They seemed tense, still, and she imagined they'd probably agreed to shelve their bickering until the ceremony was finished. But they each met her gaze, in turn, and nodded in encouragement.

Letting out a shaky breath—and refusing to turn her head to look for Orias—she made her way through the crowd. They parted for her, and she thought she could hear hushed whispers as she passed. The long-lost child of the union between the Lestrange and Black bloodlines, of course she should have expected a fuss, even a subdued one, such as this.

Tom crossed the dais to meet her, holding out his hand to help her step up. He offered her that charming grin she was becoming so familiar with as she slipped her fingers into his and followed him back to the center.

He turned her to face the assembly, but did not relinquish his hold on her hand. "We welcome Hermione Lestrange, initiate of the Death Eaters. I think I speak for all of us when I say that I see great things in her future."

A short, tubby mess of a wizard scurried forward, then, pressing a lavish silver goblet into Tom's free hand.

Tom held the cup in the air, deciding he was going to make his intentions unavoidably clear for _everyone_ present. "I also have an announcement that, I believe, will please you _all_."

Hermione furrowed her brow, but tried not to let her confusion show. She hadn't the foggiest notion what this announcement of his was about. However, she realized, as he side-stepped to stand just slightly behind her, he must be aware he was catching her off-guard.

She repressed a shiver as, just like earlier in the evening, his breath ghosted her skin as he said in her ear, "Try not to appear surprised by what I'm about to say. I apologize for not addressing the matter with you privately, but time has not been on my side as of late."

Managing to work up a barely-perceptible nod in response, she thought, _You're not the only one._

At her receptive response, he flashed that charming grin, once more. This time, however, he turned that winning expression on his gathered followers. Tom thought it best to say this exactly as it had occurred to him the day he'd met her.

"The Death Eaters have their Lord," he said, taking a deep, steadying breath and letting it out slow before he continued. "Now, it is time your lord gives you all the proper, dual-leadership our sect deserves. It is time the Lord of the Death Eaters takes a Lady. Hermione Lestrange and I have entered into a formal courtship!"

She knew she should be angry with the heavy-handed gesture, but she was too shocked. And, really, Tom Riddle should know the Black temperament she kept hearing she'd inherited. He probably already had time set aside after the ceremony for her to have a fit about this and appropriately give him a piece of her mind over having such a decision forced on her. It was all Hermione could do to keep her jaw from dropping open as she stared out into the cheering gathering.

Orias' face she found without really seeking him out. He was staring right at her, a questioning look in his eyes, but then he noted the way _her_ eyes had widened just a bit, the way her lips had snapped shut—a forced expression to keep her jaw locked in place. And the realization dawned. She was as shocked by the lord's announcement as he.

Their Lord had made a _public_ claim over her, just as Orias thought he might. He kept his smirk to himself at the understanding.

He was going to find a way around this.

She felt herself unreasonably calmed by the subtle nod Orias gave. He comprehended what had just happened, that was a relief. But that was not her only concern. She now would have no choice but to tell Tom she'd been infected by Fenrir's bite.

Even, that, however, was not what weighed on her mind most, just now.

Mother had been so vocal about thinking a relationship with Tom a bad idea. Hermione was afraid to turn her attention on her parents. Especially with her _suitor_ making it seem as though they'd discussed this, already.

Chewing furiously at her lower lip as Tom drew her back against him to drop a kiss on her cheek, she marshalled her courage and looked over at Bellatrix and Rodolphus. Father was notably shocked, but he seemed collected. He gave a slow nod and smiled encouragingly at her. He might not be thrilled by the blindside, but she knew he'd support her wishes, whatever they were.

Mother, however . . . .

Swallowing hard, she shifted her gaze to meet Bellatrix's. The elder witch was staring back, unblinking. Hermione thought she could see a sheen in her mother's dark eyes.

From her carefully controlled expression, however, Hermione couldn't tell if Mother's tears in that moment were born from sadness at her daughter not heeding her words, or something darker and far more frightening.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Hermione was terrified. As Tom offered her that ceremonial goblet to take a sip, she thought she could feel the prickling of her skin under a weighted gaze. As he passed it around to the others—not unlike Communion in a church service, yet the significance _here_ was not do with mythical blood, but of the Death Eaters sharing their life's spoils with one another—she thought she could hear the rushing of her own breath in her ears.

As he ended the ceremony, complete with another kiss on her cheek, and another wave of his arm, presenting her to the gathering, once more, she wasn't quite certain how her knees hadn't buckled under the heavy coil of anxiety winding in her gut. She'd thought before there must be some special connection between witches and their offspring, one that caused children to feel their mother's disappointment, or anger, or whatever other directed negative emotion, all the more deeply than they would with a Muggle parent.

Now, as Tom grasped her hand and led her across the dais toward her mother and father, and she was overcome with the oddest sensation of having to unstick her feet from the floor, she knew it was true. Nothing in her life was ever going to feel quiet so crushing as the sense that Mother was upset with her.

Nonsense, she thought, trying to buoy herself as she drew closer to the dispersing gathering. She could simply tell Mother what had happened! Yes, yes. She was upset because she believed Hermione had kept this from her. Once she knew that wasn't so, she'd calm down.

"Are you all right, Hermione?"

She started at Tom's voice. She'd not even realized her gaze had been firmly glued to her own feet until he'd spoken. Now, she tore her attention from them to look up at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

He paused, pulling her to a halt. "You're trembling, what's the matter?"

"Well, to be honest, I'm not especially happy about the blindside you just pulled."

Smirking, he breathed out a quiet chuckle. "I am sorry for that. It was not intended so, though I know it would be impossible to feel any other way about the situation." He frowned, noting that the look on her face was not one of anger, but of fear. "What else?"

She shook her head. "It's Mother, you see, she . . . ." The young witch swallowed hard, her eyes going wide. He was their leader. How could she possibly tell him one of his most loyal followers had thought him a bad match for her own daughter?

Tom's brows drew upward as he held her gaze. "Your mother, what?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she decided it best to voice the reasons Mother had given her. Surely, if he understood Bellatrix was _only_ hoping her daughter's future husband would be able to provide her with the appropriate attention one needs from the person they share their life with, things would be _fine_.

"She . . . ." She drew in a deep breath and let it out slow, painfully aware that besides them, three people remained of the gathering. Her parents, and—of course—Orias Mulciber. "After you took me on that tour of your family's library, she told me she feels that you and I would not make a good match. You see—"

"After merely spending a few hours with you? That is presumptuous of her," he said with that charming grin.

Hermione's brows shot up before she lifted her hand, indicating his fingers still wrapped around hers, and then nodded back toward the altar. "So you say, but here we still are."

He mirrored her expression as he let out a sigh. "You make a good point."

"Please don't think poorly on my mother for this." She shook her head. "It was nothing bad, I assure you. She simply thought with you having so many duties you simply would not have time for me, and that would not be fair to either of us." Okay, so she might've added that last bit about fairness, but it _sounded_ like it fit.

"I understand. Don't worry, Hermione," he said, that grin returning. "I shall take full responsibility for the shock I just gave your parents. And . . . ." He dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper. "I will always make time for _you_."

"Oh," was all she could manage, aware of a blush flaring in her cheeks, and that damned familiar stirring low in her body.

At that, he turned and continued them walking toward her parents, now in conversation with Orias. At least Rodolphus was. Mother, however, was eyeing the approaching couple, her expression worryingly blank.

When they reached the three, Hermione broke away from Tom to step directly in front of Bellatrix. "Mother, I'm _so_ sorry. I know what you said, and I swear I didn't go against your wishes! Tom can explain—"

The sound of a hand striking flesh seemed to echo through the empty chamber.

Startled at the flash of pain in her cheek, Hermione felt her eyes water as she stared back at her mother. Her breath slipping out in little, trembling gasps, she lifted her hand to her face, shielding the throbbing skin.

It all happened in a blur. She stumbled back a step, only to feel Tom's fingers close around her shoulders, steadying her. Father caught Mother's hand before it could fall back to her side, his grip around her wrist looking painfully tight as he spun the elder witch to face him. Orias all but pushed the Lestranges out of his path as he moved in front of Hermione, blocking her from her parents.

"Bella," Rodolphus' voice rang in Hermione's ears as she scrambled to get her bearings. "What is the matter with you?"

"I . . . ." The older witch's voice tumbled from her lips, low and confused, but she seemed unable to get out anything more.

Tom exchanged a glance with Orias. The towering wizard nodded—they might have their rather impressive unspoken disagreement at the moment, but in this they were on the same page—and shifted to one side, still guarding Hermione, but moving out of Tom's line of sight of the couple.

"She was afraid of something like this," Tom informed them, his tone grave, his gaze fixed on Rodolphus, as though Bellatrix was not even present. "Said she was worried her mother would be angry with her for my announcement. Your daughter had _no_ idea I was going to say that. My intention to enter courtship with her was as much a shock for her as it was for the two of you. For that, you have my sincerest apologies."

Rodolphus felt his wife, clearly aware of what she'd just done, sag against his side. "I understand, My Lord. I was made aware of Bellatrix's opinion on the matter only just before the ceremony. Hermione, are you all right?"

Hermione tried not to sniffle audibly, but the tip of her nose stung, and she was fighting to keep those tears in her eyes. "Yes," she said, but her voice was shaky, the word barely a whisper, only heard for how quiet the grand chamber was just now.

At the way she sounded, all three wizards looked at each other. They each wore the same concerned expression.

"I believe it might be best if Hermione were to stay with me, for the time being," Tom said. He was prepared for her father's protest, as he tacked on just as Rodolphus opened his mouth, "I mean in one of the guest rooms, of course. Only until her mother has sorted through her issues with this courtship and can be trusted not to strike her own child!"

The sudden harshness in Tom's usually so gentle tone gave all gathered a bit of a start. Hermione couldn't say she blamed him, though—she, herself, was still reeling from the shock of her mother's slap. That shock, she thought, might be the only thing staving off the anger she might feel had anyone else leveled that blow.

A good thing, too, as she didn't know what to expect from her own temper these days.

Bellatrix said something, then. Hermione couldn't quite hear what, the other woman's voice a mere subdued whisper—she imagined Mother was saying something to Father about the situation she'd caused.

"We will discuss this at home," Rodolphus said, his own voice harsh, to match Tom's. "As for your suggestion, My Lord—"

"If your concern is me overstepping my bounds with her," Tom interrupted, not liking, himself, what he was about to suggest, but it would put Rodolphus at ease, "then may I suggest Orias stay, as well, while she is in my home?"

Mulciber blinked rapidly a few times as he said, "Might've wanted to suggest that to _Orias_ , first."

Tom arched a brow. "Do you object?"

Orias narrowed his eyes, but kept his features schooled. Was this a way to assure Rodolphus nothing would happen between his daughter and Tom, or a way for Tom to assure _himself_ that Orias had only limited time to be alone with Hermione? Either way, being put on the spot like this gave him little choice in how to answer.

As if he'd let Lord Riddle being somewhere in the house really stop him from doing what he wanted, anyway?

"Of course not."

Tom forced a grin before turning his attention to the witch. "Hermione? This is all up to you, of course. If you want to go home with Rodolphus and Bellatrix, that is your choice."

Chewing at her lower lip in thought, her hand still pressed to her cheek, Hermione leaned around Orias' massive arm. Bellatrix's dark eyes met hers, and though the older witch looked apologetic, and positively bewildered, in fact, holding her mother's gaze sent a scattering of pins and needles across Hermione's skin.

She winced, slipping back, again. "I'm sorry, but yes. I—I do think it _is_ best to put some distance between Mother and me for a little while."

"Don't apologize, my dear," Rodolphus said, he relinquished his hold on Bellatrix long enough to step around Orias. He dropped a kiss on his daughter's cheek and then returned to his wife's side. "I'll pop by in the morning to bring you a change of clothes, and check in on you?"

"Thank you, Father." Though he masked his reasoning well enough, Hermione thought they all knew what he really meant was not to check in on _her_ , but to let her know how whatever discussion he was about to have with Mother when they got home had gone.

She heard Mother's whispered protests—insisting she was fine, she'd simply had an irrational moment, oh why wouldn't he let her go back and apologize to her daughter?—as Father escorted her from the chamber.

Her shoulders drooping, Hermione let her hand finally slip from her cheek. She loved her mother, but she could not help that this incident had made her fear the woman, just a little.

* * *

That was how she'd ended up in a beautiful guest suite in the Riddle Estate. She didn't question where he'd gotten the lovely white lace nightdress and matched dressing gown that he'd offered her—for all she knew, there was as innocent an explanation as it had been his mother's, or as sinful a one as he wasn't _un_ accustomed to entertaining witches overnight.

When there came a knock at her door, she looked up from where she sat, curled into the armchair in front of the fire.

"Yes?"

The door creaked open, and she could not deny the sweet little ripple that wound through her as Orias stepped into the room. Before she was even aware she'd moved, she was out of the chair and crossing the floor to him.

A wicked grin spread across his lips as he leaned down, slipping his arms around her and cupping her arse with splayed fingers. "Haven't had enough of me for one day?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, with a breathy laugh as she stood on her toes, closing the distance between them as much as she could on her own.

"You know," he started, speaking between moments of nibbling ravenously at her bottom lip, "you probably won't want to hear this, but I _really_ wanted to hex your mum for giving you that smack."

"I appreciate your restraint." She didn't want to even think about what had happened. She tore her mouth from his, ducking her head to nip at his chest through his shirt. She didn't want to think, didn't want to talk, all she wanted was for him to pick her up, carry her across the room to her bed, and—

 _Knock, knock, knock._

The couple froze.

"Hermione?"

Orias arched a suggestive brow at her. She thought she could already read his meaning, despite that they'd only known each other such a short while—that she should _let_ Tom come in and find them like this. Frowning, though it was a forced expression, as she actually wanted to laugh, she extracted herself from his arms.

"Just one moment," she said, pushing the stubborn mountain of a wizard toward the wall beside the doorway.

He relented, moving the last few steps on his own with a shake of his head. Though, when he got there, he folded his arms across his chest, eyeing her as she moved aside and opened the door—wide enough that it looked like she _wasn't_ hiding anything.

"Tom? Is something wrong?" She pretended not to notice the faint wash of pink in his cheeks as he gave her a once over.

"No, not . . . not at all. I was simply having trouble sleeping, and seeing that you are still awake, yourself, was wondering if you wanted to join me in a nightcap."

In a flash, a jumble of thoughts ran through her head. She could say no, but then he might still go and ask Orias to join him—she didn't think Orias Mulciber seemed a man to turn down a drink—and that would lead him to wonder just _where_ Orias had disappeared to when he found that guest room empty. She did enjoy Tom's company, and whatever she and Orias had, Tom was, technically, her suitor.

Oh, this was confusing, but at the moment, the only important thing was to keep the wizards from getting into a confrontation. Which meant keeping Tom from realizing Orias was in her room.

"Certainly." Stepping into the corridor, she pulled the door _almost_ entirely closed behind her.

As Tom led her toward the top of the staircase, he paused. "Oh, but I'm being rude. We really should invite Orias. Do you suppose you could go down and wait for us in the—?"

"Actually, I'm not familiar with your home, at all, Tom," she said with a pout. "Do you think you could just lead me to where you want me, first?"'

His jaw fell just a little, but then he told himself she hadn't intended her words to sound the way they had. Where he wanted her was certainly not in the drawing room downstairs, or at least not _just_ in that room . . . . But he pushed himself to remain focused.

"Certainly," he said with that charming grin of his.

As she thought they were about start back down the stairs, he reached up, cupping her cheek. Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat as she stared at him while he smoothed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip.

He leaned close enough that he knew she could feel his breath against her mouth as he said, "From this moment forward, anyone who dares hurt you will have to deal with _me."_

She shivered, swallowing hard. God, what was wrong with her? She'd just been in Orias' embrace, now here she was like this with Tom—and she didn't feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

Clearing her throat, she reminded him, "About that nightcap?"

"Ah, yes, of course." Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he guided her down the staircase.

Hermione strained to listen to the upper level as they descended the steps. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she swore she could hear the creak of her guestroom door opening, slow and careful, followed by footfalls, only barely muffled by the second floor's thick carpeting.

As Tom saw her settled comfortably on the sofa in the drawing room, an elf summoned to fetch her a hot toddy, she realized this might be a bad idea. Obediently sipping her drink, she watched Tom turn and retreat from the room to go get Orias.

Who knew, perhaps being in the same room with the two of them . . . in the middle of the night . . . with alcohol warming their bellies and loosening their senses . . . would not be so bad? Letting her eyes drift closed as she took a second sip, she shook her head. Oh, who was she kidding?

This had all the earmarks of a disaster waiting to happen.

* * *

 **Readers please be advised :**

 **As of the posting of this chapter, I'm taking a break for a week to get some reading time in. I'll see you all in a few says (I know I said a week, but I never make it that far without doing some writing XD ).**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The night was . . . awkward, to say the least. Hermione was certain it must be her new, sharper awareness of the energy others emitted with their emotional states that made her so keen to the bothersome tension in the air. Tom and Orias seemed content to carry on their conversation about the upcoming Samhein festivities, as thought either of them actually cared. Yet, she could not ignore that every now and again, Tom's gaze turned quite unfriendly when Orias wasn't looking, and there was an edge to certain things Orias said that could not be mistaken for anything other than _barely_ veiled disrespect.

But their mention of the holiday only reminded her that before then, she'd have to go through her first full moon as a werewolf. Her state with her parents—well, with Mother, at the moment—seemed rocky, at best, and whatever was going on in her head, it was on Father to deal with, for the time being.

Neither of them were in a place to handle another new thing hurled at them because of _her_.

Tom reached over, idly taking her hand in his as he continued whatever he'd been saying to Orias. He didn't even seem to notice the gesture, himself, but she could swear the other wizard flinched, ever so slightly.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she decided that just now she'd ignore that there was part of her content to sit back and soak in their subtle, territorial anger toward one another. Damn werewolf instincts.

As the other night, she reminded herself werewolves were no longer the maligned creatures of dark folktales they'd once been. Tom had claimed a courtship with her, and she and Orias were . . . well, they were clearly in some sort of relationship if he was feeling jealous.

If any two people in the world might help her keep this from her parents until she was certain they were ready to hear it . . . .

"I've something I need to tell the two of you." She noticed her speech slurring, and paused a moment, setting aside her cup as she gave her head a small shake.

"Sounds like someone's had a bit more than she can handle," Orias said with a snicker.

Tom folded his lips inward on a grin, far too gracious to poke fun at her, just now.

"Nonsense, I'm more sleepy than tipsy, but hush, this serious."

The mountainous wizard's brows shot up. "All right, then."

"Tom, you're probably going to think I should've told you this sooner, but it wasn't an attempt to keep something from you. You did sort of spring the courtship-thing on me without warning, in the first place."

Orias chewed at his lower lip, his gaze fixed on Hermione. She couldn't be about to inform Tom of what they'd done just before tonight's ceremony, because she said it was something she had to tell _both_ of them. Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded for her to go on.

She turned her attention to Tom, waiting for his response.

His brows pinched together as he nodded. "Whatever it is, go ahead."

"Okay . . . okay . . . ." Drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled, slow and shivering. "Okay. The cure that you arranged? The werewolf bite? It, um, it's magic wasn't wholly absorbed in healing me. I went into this knowing there was a chance that might happen, and it turns out it _is_ happening."

Tom's eyes widened. "You're a werewolf?"

She started at the sharpness in his tone, drawing an immediate apologetic look from him. "Not . . . not exactly, yet, but I won't be able to escape it when the full moon comes next week. I haven't—I haven't told my parents, yet."

"So, we're the only ones who know?" Orias asked.

Though she wanted to protect Fenrir—more than wanted to, she felt _driven_ to, likely just another odd werewolf thing, she realized—she understood if it was learned that he knew she was turning and hadn't shared, he might be in trouble with Lord Riddle. Unless there was a reason he hadn't shared. "The one you sent, Fenrir Greyback, he knows. But, that's _only_ because I felt the changes in myself and sought him out to ask him if they meant what I thought they did. I made him promise not to tell anyone."

Orias nodded. So, he'd shagged a werewolf. That was a new one on him. "Secret's safe with me, Little Witch."

Tom nodded, frowning in thought. "I see. And you want us to, what? Help you keep this from your parents?"

Her shoulders slumped at his question. "I wanted you to know, because I wanted you to know. But I _would_ appreciate it if we could keep this to ourselves, for now. Please?"

After another moment of thought, Tom nodded. "All right. What's more . . . . We can make arrangements for you to be away from home for the duration of the next full moon. Something . . . coincidental so they won't piece together the timing."

"Thank you!" Before Hermione realized what she was doing, she'd thrown her arms around Tom's neck in a hug.

It was only when his arms closed around her, as well, and Orias cleared his throat in an awkward grumble of sound, that she started to pull back.

Tom bit his lip, though, catching her eyes with his as he held her in place against him. "In the spirit of full disclosure, then, there is something I must tell the both of you."

The witch's brows shot up as she waited, not at all hating the feel of Tom's body pressed to hers like this.

He looked from Hermione to Orias, and back. Tom dropped his gaze to her mouth, tracing her lips with his gaze before lifting it to her eyes, once more. When he spoke, his voice spilled out in a breathy whisper.

"I know about the two of you."

Her face fell and she blinked a few times in rapid succession before she could rightly process what she'd just heard. "That's . . . but . . . ."

Orias felt a strange rush of protectiveness—Lord or not, Tom Riddle could not possibly think it appropriate to penalize either of them for being together earlier that evening. The snogging just upstairs barely an hour ago? _Certainly_ , but nothing more. "We didn't know you were going to go so heavy-handed and announce your courtship to everyone who matters _before_ even telling the woman you're courting!"

Hermione still in his arms, Tom turned his head to look at Orias. "And had you known, that would've stopped you from pursuing her?"

Orias sat back, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Sure it would."

Tom arched a brow. "For how long?"

"Five minutes." The blond man shrugged. "Ten if I had been in a _really_ good mood at the time."

Snorting a chuckle, Tom shook his head. "At least you're honest."

"So what does this mean? What are you going to do?"

Returning his attention to the wolf-witch in his arms, Tom shifted his hold on her, pulling her into his lap. The surprise in her expression delighted him, as did the squaring of Orias' jaw he noticed from the corner of his eye.

"Well, I could tell you to never do it again, but I've a feeling such words would fall on deaf ears. A werewolf is drawn to whom they are drawn to for reasons that border on natural laws."

Her brows shot up, a hopeful gleam in her chestnut eyes, even as she noticed that she was rather enjoying the warmth of sitting so intimately with him. Hadn't Fenrir explained as much to her parents before they'd first met? About the role chemistry played in how his kind interacted with people? "You know about werewolves, then?"

Tom nodded, dropping his gaze to rake over her mouth, again. "So much. And what I mean to tell you—Mulciber, come sit over here with us."

"Oh, so, now you're just outright ordering me about?"

Pinning the larger wizard with a glare, Tom bared his teeth as he said, "Come, _sit_."

Hermione swallowed a gasp. A little, teasing thrill had coursed through her at hearing Tom growl a command that way. She turned with small, trembling movements to watch Orias as he grudgingly stood and crossed to sit on the sofa beside them.

When she returned her attention to Tom, he nodded, slipping a hand around the back of her neck and letting his fingers rest there.

"As I said, I will not try to stop you, as I think that would only create an uncomfortable situation for all three of us. I _meant_ to tell you that in order for this to work, I'm going to set forth some rules."

The wolf in her snapped to attention at that, not liking this notion of being told what to do, at all. "Rules?" she echoed, narrowing her eyes.

"They're necessary," he explained, holding her gaze steadily.

Her eyes narrowed further, still. He'd managed to hit some nerve within her that had her primal instincts governing her behavior. She didn't even care to stop the little growl rumbling in the back of her throat.

Orias' brows shot up as he watched the interaction. He was suddenly not so certain doing as Tom had ordered and coming _closer_ to them had been such a good decision.

Tom shook his head with a sigh. "Really, now?"

Hermione frowned, tipping her head to one side as they stared at each other. "You can talk about these rules of yours, but you can't force me to listen."

"Can't I?" He gripped his fingers into a fist in the hair at the back of her head and pulled tight.

She choked out a gasp as her head tipped back, and he leaned close, inhaling deep at the pulse in her throat. God, he could force her, couldn't he? She could already feel it, the sweet, aching pulse running through her at his brazen and dominating gesture. She could feel her eyes burning, with the same amber glow she'd seen from Fenrir that first night.

"Oh, bollocks," Orias' voice was barely a thread of sound through the room as he noticed it.

Tom straightened enough to meet her gaze. "Now, you see, Hermione, you're making me use what I've learned about werewolves against you. I know what that light in your eyes means, and it will be answered, but first we _will_ discuss these rules. Are you going to be a good girl and listen?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. He knew what the light meant, then by answering it, he must mean . . . . Oh, dear. She had to will herself not to think on that, or she would not be able to focus on a word he said.

"No one can know about the two of you. Keep things private, and you can carry on as you will. However, for all intents and purposes, are you _mine_. If anyone were to learn of you two, it would be embarrassing for all three of us, but _extremely_ problematic for me as the leader of the Death Eaters."

She furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"Because the more loyal of them would believe you two have wronged me, and were I not to take action against you both, I would look weak. I inherited the role from my mother, and she ruled with an iron fist. I have managed to maintain order with a gentler touch, yes, but were I to hesitate in dealing with a problem that would presumably distract me from my duties, then my ability to lead will be questioned. I could be challenged." He gave a sideways nod. "Not unlike a wolf pack."

She nodded, though she was beginning to find herself fighting not to get distracted. Her prolonged placement over Tom's lap was making things uncomfortable for him, as well, if the sudden, rather solid warmth beneath her was any indication.

Unlike her, however, he seemed able to remain wholly focused on the discussion, for the moment. "The role of Lord—or Lady, in my mother's case, of course—has never been out of my family line. I don't know if it's true, but I was led to believe it is a magical legacy. I don't know what sort of impact such a shift in leadership could have on our society, as a whole."

"So, that's it, then?" Orias asked, arching his brow. "She and I can keep shagging, and you and her, what?"

Tom smirked, altering his grip on her hair just enough to brush the edge of his thumbnail along the back of her neck. He waited for her response, for her to shiver in his hold before he replied, "We, of course, will do what courting couples _do_. You seem under the impression that I am a eunuch."

Orias barked out a laugh. "No, no, I just . . . . Well, to be totally honest, you are right to think I'd have carried on however I wanted to, anyway, provided she was on board for it. I just didn't imagine _you_ would be on board for it, My Lord."

Sighing, Tom's shoulders drooped a little, his attention never once having drifted from Hermione all the while. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was a gorgeous, hazy look in those glowing amber eyes. If he didn't give into her soon, she might just turn feral on them in her wolf's drive to get what it wanted.

Holding her gaze, still, he continued talking to Orias, though he leaned closer to her, so his breath whispered over her skin as he spoke. "The day I knew I wanted Hermione to stand beside me as my Lady, I committed myself to the notion of giving her whatever she desires. I had no reason to think the cure had gone and turned her into a she-wolf, at the time, but now . . . . Well, I'm grateful for my studies into the nature of werewolves, to say the least."

Orias narrowed his eyes as he looked from Tom, to Hermione, and back. "Are you really so sure I shouldn't be excusing myself from the room about now?"

At his question, the witch turned her head in Tom's loose hold. She caught Orias' gaze with her own, and _damn_ if she didn't look utterly enticing, all riled up and fiery-eyed like that.

"Her look says otherwise, I think," Tom said, an edge of humor to his words. "You see, Mulciber, funny thing about werewolves. They're like engines that won't give out until they are _absolutely_ spent. _Especially_ the females."

She was dully cognizant of the fact that she should be insulted that she was being spoken of as though she wasn't in the room. But the low, purring pitch of Tom's voice as he held her against him, still, and the completely transfixed expression on Orias' face as he stared back at her, made it impossible to think about anything but how much she wanted Tom to pull away the layers of fabric separating their bodies and sink into her.

How much she wanted Orias to move just a bit nearer, to close his arms around her and rake his teeth along her throat as he held her, pinned for Tom's thrusts.

Her breath came out in a loud, shivering sigh and she could feel the warmth in her cheeks at the mental picture, but she couldn't help it. Her thoughts were absolutely ruled by her desires, right now.

Noticing the wash of color in her face, Tom smirked, dipping his head to catch her earlobe between his teeth. He nipped at the delicate skin for a few heartbeats before he continued, speaking so his lips moved, warm and wet, against her ear. "Once aroused, a werewolf is utterly _insatiable_ until they're given release." Oh, how she was shivering against him just now was nothing short of delicious. "The way she's feeling right now, if we simply . . . leave her alone, there will be no settling down for her. No lessening of how worked up she already is; it will only get worse, leaving her in absolute agony until _something_ soothes her by giving her what she needs."

Orias forced a gulp down his throat, unable to tear his gaze from hers, Lord Riddle's words taking on a strange, mesmerizing cadence as he went on. And damn, if he didn't feel as though whatever was about to happen in this room, he _desperately_ wanted to be part of it.

"So, looking into her eyes, Mulciber," Tom said, not even bothering to hide the wicked grin curving his lips, "tell her, not me . . . . Do you _really_ think you could be one to leave her to such agony?"

Before he even realized what he was doing, Orias had shifted closer. Pulling her back to lean against his chest, he brought his mouth down on hers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Tom's hands swept over her, up her arms, along her shoulders, and finally down to cup her breasts through her nightdress. The sensation of his fingers catching her nipples in rough, tugging pinches caused her to growl into Orias' mouth.

Hermione couldn't help but shiver against the larger man behind her. The sound of Tom chuckling, low and deep in the back of his throat, seemed to tickle across her skin.

She broke the kiss, turning her head to look at Tom. Orias dropped his mouth to the side of her throat, lapping and nibbling at her skin.

Holding her gaze, Tom lowered his hands again. His fingertips dragged down her abdomen and further, still, to dip between her thighs. He pulled her knickers aside and trailed over the slick skin in quick, teasing strokes.

A smirk curved one corner of his mouth upward as he asked in an impossibly low murmur, "Are you watching?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione tipped her chin downward to lower her gaze. There was something captivating about watching the movement of his fingers over her. Yet, not so captivating as when he reached his free hand to slip around one of Orias' wrists.

She watched, mesmerized, as Tom guided the other man's fingers to sink into her while he continued those teasing touches. Biting her lip to hold back a gasp, she found she couldn't seem to do anything more than press back against Orias' frame, tilting her hips toward their combined ministrations.

Though she thought perhaps she should've expected the evening might turn out like this, the witch was rather certain she _hadn't_ expected it because it seemed Tom Riddle and Orias Mulciber would sooner end up in a duel to the death than working together to give her the night of her life.

Unable to keep her focus, she let her head fall back against Orias' shoulder. Bracing her palms against his thighs, she shifted in Tom's lap, rocking her pelvis against their hands.

As her body began to tense, her muscles shivering at the sensations coursing through her, Tom . . . _stopped_. Worse, he used his other hand, still on Orias' wrist, to force the other man to halt his movements, as well.

Sooner than she could wonder if she'd done something wrong, or if this had all be some sick joke, Tom slid his hand into his nightclothes. Pulling his cock free of the troublesome material, he met Orias' gaze over her shoulder.

He flicked his gaze along Hermione's body as he said to Orias, "Help me with this, would you?"

Uncertain why he was being so compliant—maybe it was just his own desire to be involved in this—Orias nodded. Clamping his hands over her hips, he lifted the witch. There was definitely something that made him forget his own misgivings in the way she shivered in his hold as he lowered her down over Tom.

As he sank into her, Hermione dropped her head down to Tom's neck, her mouth moving along the side of his throat in ravenous little bites and kisses. Her fingers gripping helplessly into his nightshirt, she started rocking against him, trembling ever so slightly with every forward motion.

Tom brushed his lips—misplaced in the moment for how gentle the gesture was—against her shoulder and the side of her face in feathery kisses as she worked herself over him. Aware the man behind her deserved some reward for being so very cooperative, he reached one arm around Hermione.

Just as the haze in his mind receded enough to realize he was being left out, Orias felt a hand slip inside his nightclothes. Blinking a few times as he tried to process what was happening, he looked up as that hand pulled him free, allowing the fingers room to close around him. Groaning at the expertise of the stroking motions, he noted over the girl's shoulder that both of _her_ hands were still curled into Tom's nightshirt as she moved in his lap.

Oh, dear _God_ , it was Tom Riddle!

Shocked by the realization, but unable to help loving the way it felt, Orias shook his head. Letting eyes drift closed, he seemed equally unable to stop himself from shifting to thrust his cock through Tom's stroking fingers in quick, rough motions.

She was aware, very dimly so, of the brush of silk against her side, even as Tom lifted his hips beneath her to meet her movements in jarring thrusts. Opening her eyes, she lifted her head from his throat to follow the length of his jerking, outstretched arm with her gaze.

There was nothing to describe what she felt at seeing Tom's hand wrapped around Orias like that. Nothing to describe what she felt at seeing Orias' blissfully pained expression as he gave in to the moment.

Yet, those unnamed feelings lent to the delicious, sparking heat coursing through her each time Tom slammed his hips upward, pushing into her harder and faster. She closed her eyes once more, letting her head fall back as the orgasm crashed over her. She could feel, too, the way he'd tensed beneath her in that same moment. The way they stilled against each other, trembling and frozen as they came.

When it began to ebb, Tom pulled her into motion over him, guiding her through the aftershocks as their bodies wound down. He caught her in hungry, savage kiss while he eased her to a halt, finally, in the same moment that he withdrew his hand from Orias.

After a few quiet moments of the three resting against each other and catching their breath in ragged gulps of air, the sound of chuckling cut through the otherwise silent room.

Hermione lifted her head from Tom's shoulder, meeting his confused gaze with her own, before they both looked over at Orias.

Turning his attention to them, he smirked. "Shagging a werewolf and now another man getting me off? Makes too firsts in one night for me."

Sighing, though the sound was edged with humor, Hermione dropped her head back down as Tom laughed.

He closed his eyes, aware the other two were drifting off where they sat. They were his, now, both of them. Though Mulciber probably didn't quite realize that, yet.

Tightening his arms around the witch, Tom let himself fall asleep, as well, a smile curving his lips.

* * *

The following afternoon, Hermione stared at her brunch plate. They'd not really planned a brunch, but they'd woken late enough in the morning that after washing up and dressing, it was nearly noon.

Orias was digging into his second helping of food, already, and Tom was sipping his coffee over his own half-finished plate. The dark-haired man looked over at her, his expression appraising as he set down his cup.

"Hermione, darling . . . ." He waited until she met his gaze before he went on. "You're not regretting last night, are you?"

"What?" Her brows shot up. She thought it had been fairly obvious she'd enjoyed every second of what had happened. "No, no. It's not me. It's, well, it's you two. I mean, are you sure you're both not regretting last night?"

Tom shrugged, picking up his coffee, once more. "I'm fine with it. It felt wrong to leave Mulciber out after incentivizing him to stay, so I did what I could to include him."

Orias was chewing so slowly the effort looked almost painful as he eyed the other man. Swallowing, he sighed and shifted his attention to Hermione. "Like I said, that was a first for me. But, honestly? I don't think it'd be so terrible a thing if we settled tension between us that way _on_ the odd occasion."

Her brows climbed higher, still, somehow, while Tom answered the other man's statement by lifting his cup and nodding. "That, um, that was an answer I wasn't expecting," she said, finally able to take her first bite of food. Finishing her mouthful and washing it down with a sip of coffee, she shrugged. "If you two are really fine with what happened, then okay. But I suppose that does make me a little surprised the 'tension' between you two never spilled over into _that_ before last night."

"Never been alone in a room together with alcohol and a woman we both wanted in the middle of the night before," Orias answered with another of his booming chuckles.

Tom crinkled the bridge of his nose in thought as he nodded once more. "I _do_ have to think circumstance had something to do with it, yes."

There was a chiming sound, and Tom rolled his eyes. "Always when I'm occupied." Wiping his mouth, he threw his napkin on his plate and rose from the table. "I shan't be a moment. Don't get up to anything while I'm gone, you two."

She blushed, but focused on her food.

Orias watched the other man disappear through the dining room's double doors with that familiar smirk on his face. Leaning toward the witch just a little, he said, "So we're clear, I plan on getting up to _everything_ next time I've got you to myself."

Hermione coughed, surprised she didn't choke on the bit of toast that had been going down her throat as she looked up at him, wide-eyed. "And here I thought werewolves were supposed to be the insatiable ones," she replied in a whisper.

Smiling, he leaned closer still. But whatever he meant to say was interrupted by Tom's voice, stern and near-shouting in a way Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard before.

"No you will _not_ go in there. She doesn't wish to see you, yet!"

"But you must let me apologize to her! Please?"

Hermione's heart ached at the sound of Bellatrix's voice. "Mother?" Her voice was too low to be heard outside the dining room, though. Just as fast as the desire to go to the other witch slammed into her, however, so, too, did the memory of that slap. The skin of her cheek tingled unpleasantly and before she even realized she'd moved, she shrank back in her chair.

Scowling at her reaction, Orias rose from his place at the table and stormed across the floor. He flung open the doors, but placed himself so that Bellatrix could not see her daughter sitting far behind him at the table, still.

"You _are_ going to leave right this instant, Bellatrix."

Mother uttered a gasp. "Mulciber, you will not tell me what am, or am not, to do! She is my daughter, and I shall—"

"The hell I won't! You did not see her face just now when she heard your voice. She's _scared_ of you, Bellatrix. And, if that weren't enough, the master of this house told you not to enter this room. You can leave on your own, or _I_ can show you out."

Clearly trying to calm the situation while still not allowing Bellatrix access to her daughter, Tom said, "I believe it was clear last night—when the _incident_ occurred—that we should give Hermione a few days away from Lestrange Estate and let her decide what she wishes to do after that."

Although Hermione could not see what was happening, she could tell Bellatrix's shoulders had drooped and her eyes widened by the tone of her voice, alone, as she answered, "I suppose you're right. I just don't know what I was thinking last night. I feel—"

"You cannot in one breath remind your daughter that she is an adult, and then in the next take away her ability to make her own decisions." Tom inhaled slow and deep before going on. "When Hermione wishes to speak with you, I will contact you straight away. You can tell her everything you need to _then_."

"Of course, I have overstepped."

Tom and Orias showed her back to the Floo through which she'd entered. Tom had been hoping he could speak with her sensibly, and that she'd realize it was too soon, and simply go back on her way. He didn't like that Bellatrix Lestrange's behaviors seemed to be changing recently.

When the two wizards returned to the dining room, they found Hermione sobbing into a napkin. Rushing to either side of her, they peppered her with questions about what she was feeling.

Frowning, she lowered the napkin and tried to wave away their concern. When it became obvious neither of them would budge until she explained, she let out sigh. God, she hated crying.

"It's nothing, I'm fine, I just . . . . I don't know if you two would understand. I'm still new to the bond between members of wizarding families. I haven't had time, like the rest of you, to become practiced at the feelings that come with being close to a mother who's a witch. When she's disappointed, I feel like someone's wrenching out my insides. When she's angry, I want to run and hide like the world is ending, and when she's sad . . . ." Her eyes welled anew and she shook her head. "When she's sad, I feel like my heart is absolutely breaking."

"You're right," Tom said, shaking his head. "We can't know what this sudden shift in your life has been like. When you grow up this way, I suppose you do develop a tolerance for dealing with your parents feelings so directly. You're still very new to all of this."

Forcing a smile, she looked from one wizard to the other, and back. "Being a pure-blood is hard."

Orias puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, nodding. Tom breathed out a soft snicker, taking the napkin from her hand and drying her cheeks.

"You're up for the challenge, I'm sure," he said, that charming grin of his nearly enough to make her forget why she was so sad for a moment, there.


	12. Chapter 12

**I sincerely intended for this chapter to be longer, but every time I read through it, the end as it is was just screaming at me that that's where it needed to stop.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

"Father, I'm okay, honestly," Hermione said with a smile sometime later that day when Rodolphus had finally stopped by with some things from home for her.

"Really?" His brows pinched together in a look of mild disbelief, as only a father could.

"Yes!" This time she tossed in a small, quiet laugh as she shook her head. "Thank you for bringing these," she said, nodding toward the bundle of clothing and personal toiletries one of the elves was taking up to her guest suite.

He shrugged. "I'd have brought them earlier, but when I called this morning, there was no response, other than one of the servants to tell me the master of the house and his guests were still asleep. Strange as, since you've come to live with us, I could swear I've known you to be a morning person."

Pretending she didn't hear the suspicion in her father's tone—he might not have reason to think anything about Orias Mulciber, since only Tom _really_ knew of their relationship, but Tom was courting her, and it wouldn't be unheard of for a suitor to slip into his witch's bedroom afterhours—she forced herself to keep her expression light and her pulse calm as she twisted the truth a bit. "Father, honestly! I had trouble sleeping last night because of the incident with Mother. Tom and Mr. Mulciber sat up with me in the drawing room for a few hours _just_ to keep me company."

"All right. I"d hate to think I need to have a fatherly talking-to with a _lord_ , after all."

Hermione laughed, slipping her arms around him in a hug. "Funny, and here I thought I was a grown woman!"

A half-grin curving his mouth, Rodolphus caught her chin with gentle fingertips. "As the Muggles often say, no matter how old you get, you're always going to be my little girl."

Tears pinged the corners of her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Sometimes, it was easy to forget she'd only found her real parents weeks ago. Other times, the notion that so many years—of being together, of being a family, of them getting to watch her grow up, at all—had been stolen from them felt ever present, a thing capable of crushing her heart.

As much as she was still a bit terrified of mother, the thought of that weight on her heart was making her feel more sadness about her current, if temporary, estrangement from the woman than anything else.

Sniffling and blinking away her tears, she said, "Mother stopped by earlier, but I didn't speak to her."

"She did?" Father's brows shot up as he frowned. "She told me she was running errands, I had no idea . . . . Did she say anything to Tom?"

"I overheard most of it, I know she wanted to apologize. I just . . . ." She shrugged, shaking her head. "I just wasn't ready to face her, yet. But I'm still worried about how upset she must be. Is she all right? You know, considering?"

Stepping back from his daughter's embrace, he sighed. Rodolphus raked his fingers through his hair as he offered a shrug of his own. "Aside from metaphorically kicking herself for her rash behavior?"

With a sad smile, Hermione nodded.

"She says she's fine, but . . . oh, Hermione, I honestly don't know." Father sighed, shaking his head. "I feel like she's changing. I don't know how or even if it's just my imagination, but little things are different. She gets short with the elves over the most miniscule errors when she used to be so patient. She's not sharing things with me as she used to—like this business about her disapproving of a match between you and our lord. You'd think the woman would be thrilled. Bellatrix simply doesn't seem herself, lately."

Chewing at her lower lip as she thought, his daughter asked in a small voice, then, "Is—is it me? Is having me back actually _bad_ for her?"

His shoulders dropping, Father reached for her, pulling her in for a second hug. "Oh, no, no. Of course, not. You mustn't think something like that."

"Why shouldn't I? This change is recent, so is my addition to your lives."

"You have no idea what it was like to welcome you back into our family after all this time." He let out a weighted breath as he pressed his cheek against the top of her head. "I don't think I'd ever seen her happier, save for the day you were born. No, no. This will pass, whatever is happening with her, it will. And then things will be perfectly normal, again, you'll see."

She nodded, allowing her spirit soothed by her father's words. After a few moments, thinking over his comment about the day she was born, she pulled back and met his gaze. "What was the name you and mother gave me when I was born?"

Try as he might, he could not hide the wince that flickered across his features. "Actually, I had very little say in what Bella wanted to call you. She named you after her mother."

Thinking back to the day they'd gone over the family tree with her, the bridge of her nose crinkled before an aghast expression overtook her features as she said, "Druella? Oh, oh, _no_."

With a warm chuckle, Rodolphus hugged his daughter tight, once more.

* * *

"And exactly why do you have dungeon cells in your basement?" she asked some time later as Tom brought her to the estate house's sublevel, in what she thought was the conclusion of a tour of the grounds, Mulciber in tow.

Tom shrugged, exhaling a breath through pursed lips. "I dreaded to ask that question, myself, when my parents were alive. Only answer I was ever really given was that during the Dark Times, wizarding society kept themselves fully separate from the Muggle world, as such, well, let us just say our ancestors preferred to police their own, as it were."

Biting back a sound of distaste, she peered into one of the cells. "This is it, isn't it? This is where you plan to 'keep' me during the full moon?"

Orias scowled; he did not like this idea at all. However, he recognized this was her decision not his. He merely watched Tom as he waited for the other man to respond.

"I know it seems unpleasant, but under the circumstances—"

"No, no." Shaking her head, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around the bars and gave them a sound tug. "I mean, yes, it's _not_ entirely pleasant, but if we're going to keep this secret for a while, then I suppose it's the best plan under the circumstances. The space is clean, the bars are strong. It'll keep me from getting out and hurting anyone, and limits the risk of me injuring myself."

Mulciber's brows shot up as his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown. "Hmm. I wasn't expecting her to take that quite so well."

With a frown of his own, Tom consulted his watch. "I have a meeting before dinner is served that I really must get to. Mulciber, would you mind perhaps showing her the reliquary?"

Taking it nearly as some sort of personal affront that the aforementioned location had been left out thus far, she asked, "Why was that not the _first_ thing on the tour?" Well, typically she'd have demanded the library be first on any tour of an Ancient and Noble House estate, but she'd already seen that.

Snickering, Tom captured her chin in his fingers and covered her mouth with his own in a quick but hungry kiss. "My sincerest apologies. No idea _what_ I could've been thinking. Anyway the reliquary is actually a separate building, entirely, on the far side of the grounds. Would you wait up in the foyer for just a moment while I have a word with Mulciber?"

Her brows pinched together as she glanced at Orias for a second. "Are you going to kill him?"

"What? No."

A hint of color flooded her cheeks. "You're not going to do the _other_ thing, are you?"

Mulciber let out a hearty, surprised chuckle as Tom answered with a solemn shake of his head. "Never without you there, my sweet."

Biting her lip on a playfully scandalized gasp, the witch turned and started out of the cellar. Orias was almost awkwardly aware of how Tom watched her go, of how he waited until she was up the stairs with the door closed between them before he returned his attention to the towering man.

"The meeting I have now is last minute, but very important. It is also something I don't really want her to know about just yet."

Orias scowled, shaking his head. "Not sure I like being made party to you deceiving _our_ witch, there."

Forcing himself not to bristle at the other wizard's deliberate wording, Tom once more shook his head. "Nothing like that. My meeting is with Fenrir Greyback, to discuss the affliction he passed on to Hermione."

"And she can't know about that because . . . ?"

Tom frowned darkly. "Because Rodolphus told me how she and Greyback were around one another the night he bit her."

Well, Orias didn't like where it sounded like this was leading. "And?"

"Remember what I said about werewolves and chemistry?"

"Mm-hmm."

"If he wasn't exaggerating, then Hermione's chemistry with Greyback makes what happened with the three of us last night seem like a chaste bit of snogging."

Orias curled his lip. "I see."

"Under those circumstances, I'd rather they cross paths as little as possible. So . . . do what you must, but keep her occupied until I send one of the elves to collect you two."

His eyebrows shooting upward, Orias echoed, "Do what I must?"

Perfectly aware what he might be granting permission to happen, Tom nodded.

. . . . Mulciber liked the sound of _that_ very much, indeed. "You're the boss," he said with a smirk and a salute before turning on his heel and starting back after the witch.

Tom watched Orias Mulciber leave, just as he'd watched Hermione. Alone in the cellar, now, a truly displeased expression crossed his face. He'd meant every word he'd said to Mulciber just now. What made him so very, very upset at the moment was that Hermione'd said she had tracked down Greyback to talk to him about what was happening to her.

But if what Rodolphus had said about the night Hermione was bitten wasn't exaggerated, then he very much doubted the situation was as innocent as _his_ witch had claimed.


End file.
